


It's All Fine (Completed Chapter Format)

by I_am_lampy



Series: The "It's All Fine" Collected Works Deluxe Edition [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 21 chapters full of angst, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But after that there's hot sex, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Like, Lots, M/M, Not actually 21 chapters of angst, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Sex, Sherlock has a filthy mouth, So 18 chapters of angst and then 8 chapters of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-01-01 00:43:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 91,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12144822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: After Sherlock jumps from the roof of St. Bart's, John grieves his death, but 6 months afterwards, he meets someone and begins a relationship. Meanwhile, Sherlock is very much alive and chasing down the remnants of Moriarty's "web." Eighteen months after John witnesses Sherlock's suicide, Sherlock walks in the door of 221B.





	1. Grief

**Author's Note:**

> As of 10.14.17, I won't be using archive warnings, (so it'll say "Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings). In the case of rape/non-con or underage, I will write a note at the beginning of the work that says "See end notes for archive tags," which protects the integrity of the story, but also gives the opportunity for warning. You, the readers, are ultimately responsible for what you read. I also use very few "Additional Tags" so that I don't spoil the plot.
> 
> Whatever tags or warnings were put in chapter notes (beginning or end) will remain. This update only affects chapters 21 and later.
> 
> See end notes for warnings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John grieves after Sherlock jumps from the roof of St. Bart's.
> 
> _He cries every night for the first few weeks after Sherlock is gone. The pain is unbelievable. It overwhelms him completely sometimes._

John is standing by himself on the street watching Sherlock on the roof of St. Bart's. John watches as Sherlock falls.

John sees Sherlock's body on the pavement. He sees the blood. He touches Sherlock's wrist. There's no pulse but if everyone would get out of the way, he can take Sherlock's pulse properly. Maybe Sherlock just has a weak pulse and if he can hold onto his wrist long enough he can  tell them Sherlock is alive. The medics are pushing John away. John kneels outside the circle and watches as they put Sherlock on a stretcher and hurry him away. They go through the door to the morgue. Poor Molly, John thinks.

The people disperse. John tries to get to his feet. His head hurts and his hands and elbows are scraped from his accident with the bicycle. John kneels on the sidewalk and stares at Sherlock's blood. Sherlock is dead. He gets to his feet. Sherlock's blood is on the toe of his left shoe.

He walks down the street. He forgets how to get home. He can't organize his thoughts. This is what it was like when he was shot. If someone had asked John how bad the pain was when he got shot, he would have described it as exquisite. It's the kind of pain that forces your brain to dump endorphins in your body. It leaves you feeling numb and stupid. It's not unbearable because you bear it or you go into shock. Or you die.

John gets in a taxi and goes home. He takes his socks and shoes off. The toe of his left shoe has blood on it. He looks at it. He puts the shoe down on the coffee table. He picks it up again and thinks about taking it to the kitchen and cleaning it but he wants to keep Sherlock's blood on his shoe. He's not ready to wipe it off yet. He puts the shoe back down on the coffee table. He doesn't know where the other shoe is but that's okay for now.

He sits down in his chair and stares at Sherlock's chair but he's not really looking at the chair. He's looking at Sherlock on the roof of St. Bart's. He watches Sherlock fall and then he watches him fall again. His mind starts adding in extra details – the fear Sherlock must've felt as he fell. The sound his body would have made when it hit the ground.

He mostly feels numb and that stumbling stupidity that he had when he got shot. He's confused. Nothing makes sense but that's okay. He's grateful for it right now. He's not ready to feel anything. He's tired. He wants to sleep but he's afraid he'll wake up and the numbness will have gone away.

He stands up. He knows where he's going but he's not going to think about why just yet. He walks through the kitchen and into the little hallway and then into Sherlock's bedroom. The bed is unmade. There's a small red rubber ball in the middle of the bed. He laughs but it's just a whisper, one puff of breath. He picks it up and sits on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock hardly spent any time in here except to sleep, which he only did rarely, and to dress. Okay – he did spend a lot of time dressing. John used to chide him for his vanity. John stands back up and puts the red rubber ball in his pocket. He walks to Sherlock's wardrobe and opens it. There's a bag from the cleaners that John picked up for him yesterday. Sherlock asked him to pick it up. It doesn't make sense for Sherlock to ask John to pick up his dry cleaning when he knows he's going to kill himself the next day.

But nothing makes sense right now so John lets his eyes slide away. He runs a hand over one of Sherlock's shirts. He's wanted to do that for a long time. He pretends he can feel the heat of Sherlock's body underneath the shirt. John watches Sherlock fall from the roof of St. Bart's again. He slams the wardrobe shut.

He takes a deep breath and then takes out his wallet, his phone, his keys and the red rubber ball and puts them on the settee next to Sherlock's wardrobe. He avoids looking in the mirror. He takes off his jeans and folds them neatly and puts them on top of his things. He unbuttons his shirt and then his cuffs and shrugs out of his shirt. He tries to fold it neatly but he's always hated trying to fold long sleeve shirts. He usually hangs them up. In the end he folds it in half and lays it over the arm of the settee.

He's in his t-shirt and pants. He looks at Sherlock's bed. He walks over to it and sits down. He doesn't know how long he sits there. Finally he lies down. He puts his face into the pillow and takes a deep breath. It smells a little like Sherlock but the truth is he doesn't really know what Sherlock smells like up close. For now it's enough just to lay his head where Sherlock's head has been. He lies there and he pretends that Sherlock lies there with him and wonders why he waited until Sherlock was dead to have a fantasy about going to bed with him. He's an idiot. He could've been having all kinds of sex with Sherlock in his fantasies. Why did he wait?

He pulls off his t-shirt and throws it on the floor. Next he pulls off his pants and throws them on the floor, too. He's lying naked in Sherlock's bed and even though Sherlock isn't here with him and even though Sherlock will never be here with him, he allows himself this one chance just to pretend. There's nothing wrong with pretending right now. Sherlock's only been dead a few hours. Who will blame John for wanting to hold onto him a little longer?

What he does next will stay with him for years. Sometimes he will think about it and the shame he feels when he does will threaten to choke him.

He pretends Sherlock is lying in bed next to him. He's on his side facing John with his head propped in his hand and he's smiling. His eyes are warm and a little bit mischievous and very, very sexy. Sherlock is wearing a dress shirt and trousers. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, just like Sherlock always wears them. It's a little weird that Sherlock's fully dressed and John is naked but this is a fantasy so John just goes with it.

Sherlock's hand reaches for John's shoulder. He slides two fingers from John's shoulder to his hand, which is resting on his hip. Then Sherlock's palm settles at the small of John's back and he pulls John close to him. He kisses John and the longing John feels is so strong that his stomach rolls and he thinks he might throw up. He gasps for air. In his fantasy, Sherlock pulls away and his eyebrows come together in puzzled concern but he doesn't say anything.

When the nausea passes, Sherlock smiles again, that little half smile. That smirk. Sherlock traces his fingers over John's chest but the whole time he touches John he never looks away from John's eyes. His hand trails down John's stomach and his smile changes. It almost disappears but John can still see the smile in his eyes. It's bold and intense and wicked. John knows this is only how he imagines Sherlock would look if they have – could have, didn't have – sex. It looks good on Sherlock. John thinks about the blood on the toe of his left shoe but then Sherlock's hand wraps around John's cock and John stops thinking and lets himself just feel. He closes his eyes but he hears Sherlock say  _open your eyes, John_  so John opens his eyes. Sherlock watches John with his wicked eyes while he gets John off with his hand. When John comes, Sherlock's eyes open up wide, pretending to be scandalized. John laughs, his body limp and relaxed.

He tries to put his arm around Sherlock but he ends up face down on the bed. Of course he knew Sherlock wasn't really here but he thought he could pretend a little longer. He's crying and his cheeks are wet and his hand is wet because he has just masturbated in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock has been dead less than two hours and John has used that time to have a wank in his bed. He wipes his hand on the place where Sherlock was lying. He can't look at the wet spot because the shame overwhelms him.

He lies in Sherlock's bed and he cries and hates himself for it. He's pathetic. It's true that he had plenty of valid reasons not to tell Sherlock he was in love with him. First of all, Sherlock wasn't interested in romance so telling him would've just made things awkward. Second, John was confused about his sexuality – was he bisexual or was Sherlock the only man he would ever be attracted to?

Mostly, though, he never said anything because there's nothing more pathetic than unrequited love, especially when you live with the person who's failing to requite your love. He thought he would have time to figure it out. He thought  _they_  would have time to figure it out. How could he have predicted that Sherlock would jump off of the roof of St. fucking Bart's?

John thinks that if he had been a better friend or a better man or a braver man, then maybe Sherlock wouldn't have jumped. Maybe if John had told Sherlock he was in love with him then Sherlock would have felt he had something to live for, even if it was just to mock John for being enslaved by sentiment. Maybe if John had been the kind of man worth living for even when you felt like dying then Sherlock wouldn't have jumped. He would have come home and he would have talked about it with John and they would've figured it out together.

Although he can't help but wonder what Sherlock would've thought if he could see John having a wank in his bed. What kind of fucked up person does that anyway?

~*~

Mycroft comes to see him a few days after the funeral. John makes tea but neither man speaks until John hands Mycroft his cup and saucer. (A cup and saucer for Mycroft but a plain mug for John.)

"I would like to continue to pay Sherlock's share of the rent," Mycroft says after John sits down in Sherlock's chair.

They both take a sip of tea. John stares at the tea in his mug, the surface rippling slightly. His tremor has returned, although not as bad as before.

"I'm not sure I should stay," John says.

He hears Mycroft shifting in his chair, and then a deep sigh.

"John, I know you must be in terrible grief. Please believe me when I say there's nothing you could have done to stop him."

John feels his eyes beginning to burn with tears so he keeps his head lowered.

"I'm a doctor, Mycroft. I don't know how I could've missed the signs of depression. I should've known something was wrong – his obsession with Moriarty was eating him up. I felt him drawing away but Sherlock was the least likely person I've ever met to commit suicide."

"My brother was very good at wearing a mask, John, and in the end, it was  _his_  decision to jump. There was nothing you did or didn't do to push him to make that decision." He pauses and John hears him set the cup and saucer down on the table next to the chair. "Please stay, John. It's what Sherlock would have wanted. It's what I want and I'm certain it's what Mrs. Hudson wants."

John nods his head. "Okay, then."

Just like that, the decision is made.

~*~

After a few weeks of sleeping in Sherlock's bed every night, John decides to move into Sherlock's bedroom permanently. He packs all of Sherlock's clothes away in John's old closet. He changes the sheets and makes the bed. He picks up all of the clutter on the floor and packs it away in boxes.

He cries every night for the first few weeks after Sherlock is gone. The pain is unbelievable. It overwhelms him completely sometimes. He's taken two weeks of sympathetic leave from the surgery so he doesn't have much to do during the day. He invites Molly for tea, aiming to maintain ties with the friends he made through Sherlock, but she's distant and reserved; she avoids John's eyes. She and John never really developed much of a relationship – their only commonality was Sherlock – so John understands why she doesn't feel very comfortable around him. He doesn't see her again after that because, of course, he has no reason to go to St. Bart's.

He goes out for a pint with Lestrade and Mike regularly. He meets at least one of them at a pub every week, almost a regular thing. Everyone feels the pall of Sherlock's death hanging over them. Life seems to be devoid of vitality and John's grateful he's not the only one who feels it.

Mrs. Hudson helps John pack Sherlock's stuff up. They move it into 221c after Mycroft pays for someone to come in and fix the problem with the damp. (Faulty weather proofing around the window – they also put in double glazing.) John keeps things like the skull, and the hunting knife, the framed bat, the print of a skull-that's-also-two-ladies-sitting-down-to-tea if you look at it from a different angle. And, of course, he keeps Sherlock's violin, settled into its case and locked up and upright next to the music stand. The flat looks the same. The only thing missing is Sherlock.

John goes back to work. He breaks his days down into discrete, manageable goals. Wake up. Get dressed. Eat. Go to work. Come home. Eat. Watch telly or read or go to the pub, alone or with someone. On his days off, he tries to visit Mrs. Hudson. The first month after Sherlock's death, Mrs. Hudson breaks down in tears every time John visits her and John is grateful for the opportunity to comfort her because it keeps him from his own grief. He spends a lot of time walking on his days off, just to get out of the flat and keep himself from folding into a tight knot of pain. The walking is also good for him; now that he's not running around London after Sherlock, he doesn't want to get fat sitting around.

The worst gnawing pain of his grief lessens over time. John never goes a day without thinking about Sherlock – how can he not when he's still living in the flat they shared, when Sherlock is in every single object, his ghost floating through every single room? The daily reminders eventually become welcome because John never wants to forget. He had nothing before he met Sherlock and now, even though Sherlock is gone, John is still alive and loved.

He has Mrs. Hudson to fuss over him and bring him biscuits and make tea; John doesn't hear the familiar strain of  _I'm not your housekeeper_ anymore. One day, Mrs. Hudson breaks down in tears and tells him she wishes she had done for Sherlock what she now does for John.  _I wish I hadn't been so stroppy about feeding him up and keeping the flat tidy._  John assures her that Sherlock knew she loved him. She was the only person John ever saw Sherlock be physically affectionate with.

He has Lestrade, who meets him for a pint every Friday night if he can get out. He's suspended so there's not much else for him to do, he says. His marriage has fallen right apart. John listens to his woes, glad to have the focus off of himself. A month after Sherlock's death, Lestrade confides that Anderson has left, gone right off his rocker, and Lestrade confesses he's glad. It's bad enough having to see Donovan at work. He admits he can't even look at her;  _I'll never forgive her_ , he says one night, holding the tears back.  _I'll never forgive myself_.

After a few months, when Lestrade is reinstated, he invites John to go out with people from the Yard to celebrate, including Dimmock. John enjoys being in the company of the detectives. They are a rowdy bunch, eager to affirm life in the midst of all the death they see every day.

He spends time with Mike Stamford, who's always been a cheerful bloke. Mike comes across as oblivious, but he's not. He sees under the surface and reads between the lines. He's an empathetic listener. In the first month after Sherlock's death, John tells him over and over again how grateful he is that Mike took him back to Bart's that day.  _I would be dead_ , he tells him.  _I would have killed myself, had already been thinking about it before I met Sherlock_.

Even Mycroft visits occasionally (or kidnaps John), making the effort to maintain a relationship with John even though they have never seen eye to eye. John begins to enjoy Mycroft's sly humor and arrogant disdain when it's turned on everyone else. One day Mycroft quietly admits to John that he knows John was in love with Sherlock.  _Thank you for loving my brother_ , he says.  _He might not have known that your love was romantic but he certainly knew that you did love him._  Mycroft leaves John to his tears after that, for which John is grateful. He's also grateful, though, for what Mycroft is really saying – Sherlock didn't die because John didn't confess his love. Sherlock didn't die because of anything John did or didn't say or do.  _John, you are the best thing that ever happened to my brother. Remember that._


	2. Tentative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets someone, and discovers a new side to himself. 
> 
>  
> 
> _"So - can I buy you a drink?" Gerald asks._  
>  _"Yeah," John says and then grins._

* * *

**15 March 2012**

One Saturday afternoon six months after Sherlock's death, John is walking through Regent's Park, when he decides on the spur of the moment to go for a pint somewhere new. He takes the tube from Regent's Park station to Euston Square station and heads to Euston Tap. The pub is fairly quiet, it being the middle of the day. Several of the tables are full but there's only one other person sitting at the bar. John glances over at him when he sits down and then does a double take.

The man isn't much taller than John, maybe an inch or two. He's got dark brown hair and pale skin. He reminds John a little of Moriarty and John shudders. He's even got those delicate features that Moriarty had – he's almost pretty.

The man turns to face him and smiles; John realizes he's been staring.

"I'm Gerald," the man says, reaching out his hand over the two stools separating them. He looks amused. The tips of John's ears turn pink.

"John."

They shake.

"You were looking at me like you recognized me. Did I remind you of someone?"

"Yeah," John says and turns back to face the bar, not sure he wants to get drawn into a conversation with a stranger. He looks Gerald over in his peripheral vision.

The comparison with Moriarty doesn't stand up on closer inspection. Gerald has shoulder length black hair and his eyes are more hazel than brown when the sunlight catches them at a certain angle. His hair is tucked behind his ears. He’s open, friendly and relaxed. His body is turned mostly towards John, giving him his full attention. He's wearing cargo trousers that hang a little loose on his hips and a short sleeve black shirt. The top two buttons are undone.

"I hope it's someone you like," Gerald says. His smile is inviting and open. His lower front teeth are slightly crooked, but they don't make his smile any less beautiful.

John scoffs. "Hated the bastard."

"Well, that's just my bad luck, then," Gerald says with a laugh.

John looks at him with a frown. "How's that?"

"I was going to offer to buy you a drink, but I'd hate to bring up bad memories."

The surprise John feels must register on his face because Gerald looks a little uncertain. John can't tell if this bloke is trying to chat him up or just being really friendly. John finally turns towards Gerald and really  _observes_  - not only observing Gerald but also observing how John himself feels about Gerald. He lets himself imagine kissing Gerald’s full lips, brushing his hair behind his ear, tucking his fingers inside the waist of Gerald’s trousers.

John feels it - the flood of sexual attraction. The most surprising thing is that he’s  _not_  surprised to want a man. The desire has been there all along, hidden in his psyche, but now it’s forefront in his mind and it’s begging John to act.

"By the look on your face, I'm thinking my luck has changed for the better," Gerald says, his voice lower and rougher. He gestures to the bar stool next to John and asks, “May I?”

John nods, his mouth turned up a little at the corner. When Gerald is sitting next to him, John feels a shiver of excitement travel up and down his spine.

"So - can I buy you a drink?" Gerald asks.

"Yeah," John says and then grins.

~*~

Several drinks and three hours later, the pub is beginning to fill with patrons, but it might as well be empty for all the attention that Gerald and John are paying it. The two of them are leaning towards each other and their mutual attraction is apparent to them and anyone who looks at them.

Gerald, John discovers, is a professional Dom. John doesn't believe him at first. It takes Gerald a half hour to convince him he's not lying.

"I read psychology at Oxford. I worked for a while as a therapist. It's what makes me a good Dom – being able to read people and help them realize what they want.

"I used to be a conventional therapist, but I had a few clients who couldn't work out their issues. They were spending thousands of dollars on therapy but still using drugs or alcohol or sex to cope. Their marriages were still falling apart; they were still alienating their families.

"At the time, I was just getting into the dom/sub lifestyle and one day a female client of mine – a very beautiful and successful woman – said she wished someone would just  _beat_  some sense into her. That's when I got the idea to switch from conventional therapy to what I do now. I asked her if she was interested and she said yes.

"She was my first client and from there, my practice grew by word of mouth."

"And you really don't have sex with them?" John asks, still a little disbelieving.

"Oh, bloody hell no!" Gerald says, laughing. John likes Gerald's laugh. It's open and full-bodied, not at all self-conscious. "No, that's an absolute hard limit. I've never slept with anyone I've been a Dom for. My sex life is almost boringly vanilla."

"So there's no whips and dog collars involved in your sex life?" John asks, grinning.

"Whips, maybe," Gerald says, his cheeks pinking in a way that makes John want to lean forward and kiss him. "Dog collars, definitely not. My clients don't come to me for sex. They come to work out their issues."

"Tell me how it works, then. Go on," John says, nudging Gerald's knee with his.

"Well, my clients are referred by another client. There's reams of paperwork! My barrister writes it all up for me – she's a genius. It takes at least an hour to go over the paperwork.

"Then I take them upstairs to the therapy room and show them the tools of my trade and explain what I expect from them. We talk about what they want to do during their sessions and what instruments they want me to use on them.

"If we both agree, then we schedule an appointment for their first therapy session. During the first appointment, I only spend about fifteen minutes working them over. I have to pay very close attention with new clients. It takes at least five sessions for me to really get a grasp of what they can or can't handle. I use pretty mild instruments. There's nothing hardcore about what I do. I don't break the skin or anything."

"Are they naked when you do it?" John asks, fascinated.

"It depends on where they want to be hit. I don't hit genitals or breasts. Everything I do makes it clear to the client that this isn't a sexual act between them and myself. So that's just a hard limit for me. But, yeah, I have to be able to see their skin."

"And you don't get off on it?" John asks, honestly curious but not at all judgmental.

"It can be titillating," Gerald says. "But I don't get off on it, no. I apply all the same ethics I would if I were still doing traditional therapy. I'm really good at drawing boundaries and being objective. That's just my personality, really. I've always been the one my family and friends come to when they need someone to talk to. I'm not much of a risk taker, really. My unusual profession notwithstanding, of course. "

"What do you wear?"

"When I'm in a session with a client?"

"Yeah."

"Scrubs," Gerald says and shrugs. "What? It's hard work! I can only see about three or four clients a day. My arms would give out otherwise."

John's eyes linger on Gerald's arms and when Gerald notices, John feels his face heating up. He ducks his head in embarrassment. Suddenly Gerald's head is right next to John's.

"Come home with me," Gerald says softly into John's ear, causing a tremor to run through John's body.

"I, uh, I'm not," John says and stops, his face getting even hotter.

"You're not interested?" Gerald asks, sounding disappointed.

"I am, I'm just – I've never gone home with someone I've only just met," John says, which isn't the truth. He's gone home with at least a dozen women in his life, some of whom were one night stands and some who he ended up having an actual relationship with. They were all women, though.

"Well, then come home with me and we'll get to know each other," Gerald says and puts both hands on John's knees. "I can make you supper and ply you with alcohol."

"Cheeky," John says, laughing.

Gerald is teasing but his eyes are dark with arousal. The idea of going home with him causes desire to uncurl deep inside John's belly.

"Yeah, okay," John says with a grin.

"Okay?" Gerald asks. "Okay. Good!"

 Gerald pays the tab and then takes John's hand and leads him outside. The air is humid; spring is just around the corner and even though it's almost eight in the evening, the sky is still light. Gerald hails a cab, and doesn't let go of John's hand until they're climbing inside, and then he takes John's hand again. John tries not to stare at Gerald, but he really is an incredibly good-looking man. John wants him but he's embarrassed to tell Gerald he's never actually been with a man.

Gerald catches his eye. "You look unsure," he says. "Changed your mind?"

"No, I just – " John stops, looking at the cabbie. John doesn't want the cabbie to overhear.

"Tell me when we get to my flat," Gerald says, and pats John's hand comfortingly.

Gerald pays the fare when the cab drops them off at an older building right on the edge of Soho. Gerald must be wealthy to live in such a prime location. John stands there for a minute just staring at the buttery yellow front door with its brass knocker. He idly wonders how Gerald manages to keep the door so clean.

Gerald stands in the doorway, an expectant but not impatient look on his face. John stands on the pavement, feeling like an idiot.

"Still want to come in?" Gerald asks.

"Yeah, I do," John says and it's the truth.

Inside the door, John takes in Gerald's flat. It's done up in warm but light colors. There's a staircase directly ahead of the front door. The risers and walls are the color of sand and the steps and trim a muted terracotta.

To the right is a small dining room and beyond that, John can see a kitchen. The flat is modest in size but not cluttered, so it doesn't feel small or cramped.

There's a sideboard inside the front door and John sees half a dozen photographs of Gerald with his parents (obviously), his siblings (probably), friends (obviously). Sherlock would be proud, John thinks, for John to have deduced these things. (Although they would be obvious to anyone, Sherlock-inside-John's-head says.) Gerald puts his keys in a glass bowl on the sideboard. There's a stack of mail that he picks up.

"Gimme a sec; I'm just going to put these in my office," Gerald says and smiles at John, that heart arresting grin that John has become victim to sometime in the past three or four hours.

Gerald disappears through a door to the immediate left of the front door but leaves it open a crack. John peeks in and sees a small office and Gerald sorting through his mail. A narrow hallway along the left side of the stairs leads to a living room. Two leather armchairs sit on an oriental rug in front of a clean fireplace. The fireplace is functional, though – the hint of swept ashes are visible on the brick hearth. Another sideboard holds more pictures, a crystal decanter set (empty) and a reproduction of a Degas sculpture – one of the ballerinas. John knows nothing about art but this he recognizes.

The floors are hardwood, unfinished pine. There's a wicker basket on the floor beyond the sideboard that holds a pair of wellies and trainers.

"Should I take my shoes off?" John calls through the office door.

"If you like," Gerald calls back. "You don't have to, though. Why don't you pick a bottle of wine from the wine rack and open it up for us?"

John goes ahead and toes off his shoes and then pulls off his socks, tucking them into one of his shoes. He pushes himself upright again and then looks around the dining room table and sees the wine rack. It's a proper one, too, holding at least a dozen different bottles from dark red to barest champagne color. John knows nothing about wines, either, but he knows what he likes so he picks a Merlot. The tools of wine-drinking are displayed in a box, nestled in velvet. Clearly Gerald entertains often. The dining room table only seats four but there's a line in the middle indicating a drop leaf.

John uncorks the bottle and pulls two wine glasses off of the shelf above the wine rack. He pours the wine and. Gerald is just coming into the dining room when John picks up the glasses. He hands one to Gerald.

"Ah, thank you," Gerald says. He takes a sip, closes his eyes and sighs.

"Long day?" John asks.

"Yeah. Like an idiot, I went out with a few friends last night and stayed up far past my bedtime but I had to get up at six because I had two clients this morning and –  _ugh_. I'm knackered."

John feels a pulse of disappointment in his chest. "I can go if you're – "

"No!" Gerald says, almost spilling John's wine when he grabs John's arm. "No, I'm not knackered like  _that_. Just meant, I'm ready to unwind."

He moves closer to John who smiles nervously. Gerald stops right in front of him and puts his wine glass down on the table. He takes John's wine glass, too, which John lets go automatically. Gerald sets that one down, too. Then Gerald slides his hands up John's arms to John's face.

"I've-never-been-with–a-man-before," John blurts out, the words running together. He winces at his clumsy confession.

Gerald's hands drop to his side and he steps back. His face shutters; he's wary but not suspicious. The situation is salvageable.

"So you're questioning your sexuality?" Gerald asks carefully, his eyes narrowed.

"I'm not  _questioning_  my sexuality. I've already done the questioning part. I  _am_  bisexual. Full stop," John says and then clears his throat. "As far as why I'm here, well. That's a very easy question to answer. I'm here because you're gorgeous and I want you."

At the compliment, Gerald tucks his hair behind his ear, a gesture John has come to know means Gerald's feeling uncertain; but Gerald starts to smile, almost despite himself and before long, he's broken into a full grin and just like that, his face is open again. The sun is out. John bathes in it.

"Okay?" John asks.

"Yeah," Gerald says, licking his lips, unable to dampen his grin. "And, uh, I think you're gorgeous, too."

"Oh, well, of course. Everyone does. I have to peel them off of me."

Gerald throws his head back and laughs.

"Where's the loo?" John asks.

"Through the kitchen and then to the left. It's tucked up under the stairs."

John walks through the kitchen and then through a doorway into a roomy and comfortable sitting room. John knows right away this room is the heart of Gerald's home. For one, it's cluttered. Bookshelves line every available wall. A window directly across from the door looks out onto a small back garden.

A bachelor sized basket of unfolded laundry hides behind the small sofa and the neatly folded white cotton pants in a basket next to it shows the job was started and abandoned halfway through. John wonders if Gerald is wearing a pair of those white cotton pants right now and he grins.

An armchair in the corner sits in front of a floor lamp that hangs over the chair; it’s the perfect spot for reading. A beautiful oak armoire faces the sofa. One door is hanging open, showing a flat screen TV. The other door is closed. A desk to John's right is covered by today's edition of  _The Guardian_. An empty mug sits next to it, forgotten.

The cluttered, casual room makes John feel like he knows Gerald better. It's almost like peeking into Gerald's mind and nosing around a bit. John smiles.

The loo is under the stairs off to the left from the sitting room so the ceiling slopes up. John uses the toilet, washes his hands, splashes some water on his face and wipes it off with the soft hand towel sitting on the edge of the sink. He looks at himself in the mirror and grimaces. His hair has gotten so much grayer since Sherlock died. The lines on his face have always been a product of too much sun plus lots of smiling and laughing but now there are a few lines of grief. John ducks his head and leaves the loo. He finds Gerald in the kitchen.

"So," Gerald says, with a little flourish of his hand. "Pasta Alfredo and maybe a salad? Oh, and plenty of wine, of course. Because when you meet a gorgeous stranger and take him home, it's only natural to ply him with alcohol to lower his inhibitions."

Gerald makes a little self-deprecating face and crosses his eyes and John laughs, like really, honestly laughs. Gerald grins, pleased with himself. He darts forward and kisses John, but before John can bring his hands up or deepen the kiss, Gerald pulls away. His cheeks are rosy and it looks beautiful on his pale skin.

"Now you've had your first kiss with a man," Gerald says and shrugs.

Gerald is confident without being arrogant, but this display of shyness leaves John giddy. It's been months since he's been with someone – over a year, actually, since he's kissed anyone and longer than that since he's had a good shag. Well,  _any_  shag, good or not. So this is exciting.

They work in the kitchen together, John making the salad and Gerald whipping up the Alfredo sauce with an ease that makes it clear he's used to cooking. He doesn't even measure anything, just adds and looks and tastes and then finally decides it's done. He cracks some pepper over it and mixes the pasta in and serves it up in two dishes straight from the pot.

"Come on, then," he says. "Let's eat in the sitting room. I'll go back for the wine."

Gerald grabs forks out of the drawer next to the sink, and a couple of linen napkins, which John finds classy and unpretentious, like Gerald himself. Gerald sets their food down on TV trays, a stark contrast with the stark white linen napkins he places down next to their bowls of pasta. It makes John smile.

"Be right back," he says and goes through to the kitchen again. After about five minutes, he comes back with a bottle of Riesling.

"Mm," John says, food in his mouth, taking the proffered glass of glittering pale wine. He swallows. "Ta."

While they eat, Gerald keeps the conversation going. He's an excellent conversationalist, skillfully avoiding the topics John doesn't want to share with him yet. Gerald tells a few stories about horrible clients he's had to refuse to keep seeing or kick out altogether, and they laugh a lot, John's high pitched giggle and Gerald's full-bellied laugh blending in a comfortable harmony.

They talk about Afghanistan and when John says he was invalided out, Gerald doesn't pry, but on a whim, John explains why.

"Got shot," he says simply and then starts unbuttoning his shirt while Gerald's eyes go wide and his lips part.

John pulls his shirt off just enough to show the starburst pattern of his scar. Gerald's hand reaches out tentatively but then he pulls back and puts his hand in his lap and takes a huge swallow of his wine, his cheeks pinking delightfully again.

John doesn't need sexual experience with a man to recognize the signs of arousal. He knew them long before he ever experienced the deductive genius of Sherlock Holmes.

Seeing how affected Gerald is by the partial removal of his shirt, John decides to leave the top few buttons undone. He's not sure how far he wants to go tonight but he's certain he wants to spend as much time as needed kissing Gerald until he's unraveling. John knows how to take a lover apart and considers foreplay to be the main dish of a sexual encounter. Penetration and his orgasm are just dessert.

"You want to kiss me, don't you?" It sounds like a question, but it's not.  

"Is it that obvious?" Gerald asks, wrinkling his nose adorably in embarrassment.

"Yes," John says, his voice rough with arousal. He moves in for the kiss.


	3. Exploration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins to explore his sexuality with Gerald's help. 
> 
> _He's spent his entire life paring down his virility to make himself palatable to women. If he had not fallen in love with Sherlock, then he wouldn't be sitting in Gerald's sitting room right now. His hands wouldn't be sneaking up under Gerald's shirt and his fingers wouldn't be threading through thick chest hair and he wouldn't be pressing his achingly hard cock against the lean stretch of Gerald's thigh._

* * *

**15-16 March 2012**

John expects Gerald's kiss to be hard, the opposite of a woman's soft pliancy but Gerald's full lips are soft and he lets John lead the kiss. They exchange open-mouthed kisses for a few minutes before John dares to dart his tongue out and run it along Gerald's lips. A soft, breathy moan escapes Gerald and that response ignites the desire in John's gut. Want and need twist and coil inside him. He grips Gerald roughly in his arms, pulling him closely and when that's not close enough, he puts his hands on Gerald's hips and yanks him. Gerald lands with half his arse in John's lap and they laugh against each other's lips.

"Slow down," Gerald breathes, once he's wrested his mouth away from John's.

"Hm, we probably should," John murmurs, brushing Gerald's hair aside to put his now free mouth and tongue to good use along Gerald's neck.

Gerald's face is stubbled, the skin on his neck rougher than a woman's. Where the feel of a woman's skin is sensual under John's lips and tongue, Gerald's skin is  _carnal_  and sets a fire in John's gut that he doesn't worry about tamping down. With women, John always has to moderate his passion, worried about being too rough, careful not to let passion overrule sense, always aware of the fact that he can physically overpower her.

With Gerald, he lets his passion flare, doesn't have to constantly examine what he's doing and worry it's too much, too fast, too soon. He trusts Gerald to stop him if he needs to.

John comes to a terrifying realization.

He's spent his entire life paring down his virility to make himself palatable to women. If he had not fallen in love with Sherlock, then he wouldn't be sitting in Gerald's sitting room right now. His hands wouldn't be sneaking up under Gerald's shirt and his fingers wouldn't be threading through thick chest hair and he wouldn't be pressing his achingly hard cock against the lean stretch of Gerald's thigh.

John would have spent the  _rest of his life_  being a shadow of the man he is at this moment and at this moment, John is male, primal, potent,  _fully realized_.

He pulls back the collar of Gerald's shirt to suck and lick along the tendon while Gerald hisses and sighs. John pulls back and looks at him. Gerald's eyes are dark, his face flushed, his hair tangled where John's fingers were twisting through it.

Gerald, too, is male, primal, potent. John is on fire and Gerald is the bellows.

John cannot believe he's spent the last twenty plus years of his life not knowing that  _this_  was out there for him to take. How could he not know he was bisexual? It seems ridiculous to him now. Yesterday he thought he was just Sherlock-exual and it turns out that falling in love with Sherlock has opened a door John hadn't even known was there.

"I want to be able to lay you down and kiss you," John murmurs.

"Yes," Gerald acquiesces and takes John's hand.

They hold hands all the way up the stairs. At the top, there is a short hallway that crooks to the right. There are two doors on the left, but Gerald leads him past them and turns right where the hallway abruptly ends in front of a door that has an actual  _keypad_  next to it.

"Well, I bet that puts blokes off," John jokes.

"Well, the therapy room is just there," he nods at the two doors they passed while keying in the code. "This door leads to my bedroom and bathroom. I suppose it seems a bit excessive but  after having a few clients, who are now  _former_  clients, rifling through my pants, I decided to get a bit stricter about my privacy."

John chuckles and Gerald holds it open so John can walk through. Through the door is  _another_  short hallway. A door on the right and a door at the end, partially opened, the room beyond it cast in shadows. The sun has only been down about an hour.

"Through there's the bathroom," Gerald says, nodding to the door on the right.

Then he takes both of John's hands and pulls him backwards towards the dark room, staring at John with such a heated look that they're barely inside before John has Gerald caged in his arms, kissing him with unrelenting desire. He clutches Gerald's hips with his hands and pushes him towards the bed. When Gerald's knees hit the back of the bed, John begins to undress Gerald, kissing each inch of skin that gets exposed.

He slides Gerald's shirt off his shoulders and drops it behind him. Then he turns to Gerald and gives the exposed skin his full attention. Gerald has thick, black chest hair spread over his pectorals. His upper abdomen is smooth but the dark hair resumes underneath his belly button, trailing down, down, down and disappearing into his trousers. John trails his fingers through it and then lowers his head and drags his nose from the bare skin of Gerald's sternum, through his chest hair, inhaling deeply as he goes. It's intriguing the way Gerald's scent is concentrated in that dark tangle of chest hair. John continues his journey over Gerald's torso, up, up, up to Gerald's neck and then his ear.

"Gorgeous," John whispers and Gerald makes a sound in the back of his throat best described as a whimper. John grins against Gerald's neck, pleased and randy as fuck

"Are you sure this is your, um, your first time?" Gerald gasps as John patiently but persistently uses his mouth and hands, tongue and teeth, to lavish attention on every bit of Gerald's skin.

"First time with a man," John corrects, with a soft laugh.

"Apparently, seduction transfers easily between genders," Gerald inhales sharply on the last word and it disappears into his lungs.

John guides Gerald onto his back on the bed, but doesn't follow him down. Gerald crawls backwards onto the bed.

John kneels down and undoes the button and zip on Gerald's cargo trousers. Gerald lifts his hips without being told to and John tugs his trousers down so very slowly, trailing his fingertips as he goes, before dropping them behind him with Gerald's shirt. He never takes his eyes off of Gerald's. John wants him to know he's being conquered. Gerald is now laid out on the bed in nothing but his white cotton pants, already damp with Gerald's arousal. It's a beautiful sight. It's so much easier to tell whether a man is turned on, John realizes, although John would never wish that women were  _easier_. John loves a challenge. Still. It's nice for the result of his careful seduction to be so obvious.

John tugs the waistband of Gerald's pants down just enough to release his erection, which bobs enthusiastically, his foreskin almost entirely retracted behind his glans, and already beading heavily with fluid. John reaches out and holds it loosely between his thumb and first two fingers, examining it intently. As far as penises go, John has to admit it's pretty fucking beautiful. It's dark with engorged blood, the rosy head flushed and slick. Gerald is panting and lifts his hips desperately but John doesn't give him what he wants. Not yet. When he reaches for his dick, John smacks his hand away with a playfully stern look.

"You're killing me, John," Gerald begs – and yes, he's begging. John knows begging when he hears it.

"I know," John says with a wicked grin.

"My God, I'm  _so_  glad I chatted you up," Gerald replies with a puff of laughter. "Here I was worried about taking things too fast.  _Christ_ , you still have all your fucking clothes on!"

John is a  _very_  good lover. The same aspects of his personality that drove him to take on the ruthless training to be a trauma surgeon as well as drove him into serving Queen and Country in Afghanistan are the same characteristics that make him good in bed – John loves a challenge and he applies the same surgical skill to taking a lover apart as he did in putting wounded soldiers back together.

So John lets Gerald wait, building the anticipation, letting his eyes travel over Gerald's body as very slowly, John begins to unbutton his own shirt. When his shirt is off, he works off his belt, pulling it out of the belt loops with one jerk and drops it on the pile of clothes. He undoes his button and zip then leans over Gerald and pulls his pants off. Only then does John take off his jeans, chucking them on the hill of discarded clothing.

Gerald surges up but John puts him back down with a firm hand on his sternum and then kneels between Gerald's legs.

"You're going to show me how to give a fantastic blowjob," he says, his palms lighting on Gerald's shins.

"Oh,  _Christ_ , John. I'm not sure I'll last long enough to teach you anything," Gerald says.

John lowers himself to his elbows between Gerald's thighs. At this point, he would kiss and lick his way up his lover's thighs but the other thing that comes with clearer indicators of arousal in a male lover is the refractory period between orgasms. So John decides to get them both off right now and save the more languorous sex for later in the night. (He's surprised that the idea of  _later in the night_  even occurs to him but there it is.)

"Fast and dirty it is, then," John says.

He wraps his hand around the base of Gerald's erection and takes the head into his mouth. He experiments with his tongue, swirling it around the glans, then pushing it into the slit. Gerald is a writhing mess, his hands fisted in the sheets. John alternates between looking at Gerald's penis and looking at Gerald's face and after a few times, their eyes catch at the same time. Gerald lets out a litany of  _oh_  and  _fuck_  and  _John_  and  _your eyes_  as John sucks just the head into his mouth, watching Gerald's face while he does it.

"You don't need me to teach you anything," Gerald moans above him. "Christ, John, I'm already close."

"Hm," John murmurs and then pulls his lips back over his teeth, makes a tunnel out of his mouth, and pushes his head as far down as he can go on Gerald's cock before bobbing back up again.

Gerald reaches out a hand and tugs at John's hair with a warning  _gonna come, gonna come_  and John pulls off, sliding Gerald's foreskin over his glans again and again with the fingers of his right hand, his left hand working up and down the shaft in counterpoint until Gerald comes. It is  _brilliant_. Semen fountains up out of Gerald's cock and John doesn't know if he wants to watch that more than Gerald's face so his eyes flit back and forth between the two. John takes his hands off Gerald's foreskin and just uses his hand up and down the shaft to work Gerald through the last waves of his climax.

John takes himself in hand, using Gerald's semen as lube, and with a few short, firm strokes, spends himself onto Gerald's stomach.

"Oh, I wanted to suck you off," Gerald says, sounding blissfully sated rather than particularly disappointed.

John makes a dismissive noise. He wipes his hand on Gerald, who laughs but immediately stops laughing when John uses his fingers to mix their cum together, painting swirls and squares on Gerald's groin and stomach.

"Beautiful," John whispers, watching his finger move through the murky white evidence of his considerable talents. All men have, at one point or another, tasted their own spunk, but John has never tasted another man's. He brings his fingertip to his mouth and touches his tongue to it, then smacks it around his mouth with his tongue. He can't tell which is his and which is Gerald's but it tastes roughly the same. He licks the rest of it off the tip of his finger.

"Fucking Christ!" Gerald says when he sees what John is doing. "You're so ridiculously hot. My  _God_ , I'm the luckiest man alive right now."

John crawls up Gerald's body to the pillows and kisses him.

"Rest up," he says.

"You're going to kill me," Gerald groans.

"Yep. I probably am," John says, nodding his head, grinning like an idiot.

~*~

Approximately ten hours after he meets Gerald, John is woken up by the insistent press of an erection against his backside. In his drowsy state, he doesn't think twice about pressing back against it. Gerald pushes himself gently against the cleft of John's arse. Gerald's hand - muscled just like his arms with large knuckles and prominent veins - reaches over John's waist and strokes John's prick, which begins to swell enthusiastically.

"God, John, I want to you so much I can't think straight," Gerald says softly.

The way he says it makes it sound like,  _You are radiant and I want to bask in your light for a while_. John rolls over to face him. Gerald looks at him with tenderness and John is shocked by how much it affects him.

"Then take me," John says, his voice coming out sleepy-sexy, his hand dragging down Gerald's waist and then over the swell of his hip and back up his waist again.

Gerald smooths the tips of his two middle fingers over John's brow and down his cheekbone and around his jaw and then his hand picks up speed, his whole palm sliding around John's neck to his nape and then John is being kissed roughly and Gerald, who works his arms every day beating people, puts his arms around John and flips him onto his back.

John has never been manhandled by someone who intends to have sex with him. It has an irrepressible effect on him - it grabs his entire focus. John is no longer thinking about what he should be or could be or ought to be doing because every synapse in John's brain is riveted by Gerald, waiting to see what he does next. John himself is breathless with anticipation, certain that whatever Gerald does is likely to lead to a spectacular orgasm.

Gerald abruptly sits back on his heels and hooks his arms under John's knees and then leans forward. In seconds, John's thighs are pressed almost entirely against his chest and Gerald's cock is dangerously close to John's anus. John gasps, excited by the idea of being at the mercy of someone physically powerful, even though he knows that Gerald would never use physical force on him. (John can't explain how he knows that about someone he's known less than a dozen hours, but there it is). Besides, even if Gerald did try to force himself on John, he has no doubt he could fight him off.

Now John knows what it's like to be laid open and vulnerable to someone else and wonders if this is how all the women he's slept with felt. If so, he's glad he never let himself lose control, but it clarifies John's certainty that he's tired of being gentle. More to the point, he's tired of  _having_  to be gentle.

He likes Gerald's large, muscled hands, his hard chest and straight hips. He likes being physically vulnerable. He's been in that place emotionally with a woman before, but he has never once felt the raw, almost painful thrill of danger he feels at this moment, bent in half and held down by Gerald's body.

"Have you ever fingered yourself?" Gerald asks.

He keeps himself raised above John and John can feel the cool air over the cleft of his arse. His cheeks are spread wide by the position Gerald has him in. John feels completely exposed.

"I tried but it was too hard to reach on my own and I never had the courage to ask a woman to do it for me. Afraid she would think I was." He stops, his face burning in humiliation.

"Afraid she would think you were gay?" Gerald asks gently.

"Yeah," John admits, turning his face to the side.

"You know it doesn't mean you're an ignorant, backwards arsehole to feel that way, right?"

John scoffs. "I'm pretty sure that's exactly what it means."

Gerald gently guides John's legs back onto the bed and then lies down, pressing up against John and keeping their legs knitted together so that contact isn't broken but John is no longer physically vulnerable. John can feel Gerald's lost erection against his thigh and stifles the frustration he feels at having derailed their plans.

"Look, John," Gerald says, his fingers brushing idle circles over John's stomach and chest. "Even with all the progress the gay community, and society at large, has made, being openly gay is difficult. In many ways, it means living in constant fear - fear of violence, fear that your job will be jeopardized, fear of judgement from co-workers, family, and friends, fear that you could  _lose_  your family and friends. It means constantly being aware of how you look and act.

"My parents are very socially liberal, and have always strongly supported human rights, including gay rights. Even then I was afraid to tell them I was gay. I might not have told them for years except that a few days before Christmas my first year at Oxford, my mother walked in on me performing oral sex on the boy from next door, who also happened to be my best friend and flatmate at Oxford. I was humiliated but Cyril just pulled a blanket over us, and said, 'We'll be down in a mo, Mrs. Glass, and then you can yell at us.' Cool as you please, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He'd come out to his parents practically as soon as he knew what it meant."

"And did she? Yell at you, that is?" John asks, turning over onto his side, fascinated by Gerald's frank confession.

"No, she was too gobsmacked to say anything. We just went on as though she hadn't caught me with Cyril's cock down my throat. Cyril turned it into a comedy but I went back to Oxford feeling like I'd lost her forever. We were always so close. Still are."

"What happened to Cyril?"

"Oh, he's still my best friend. It only took about six months shagging Cyril to realize that I wanted true love and wasn't going to get it from him. He doesn't want a relationship, still. Doesn't believe in romance. For himself, that is. So long as he's got someone to shag and his friends, he feels fulfilled."

"And did you work it out with your mum?"

"Oh, eventually. She asked me to come down for mid-term so I did and she sat me down and explained herself. She said she'd always believed she knew her children better than anyone else did, even better than they knew themselves, and it was a shock for her to discover she didn't know me as well as she thought. She said in hindsight, it was obvious. I'd never dated any girls, never asked one out, never talked about girls. I'd never talked about boys, either, to be fair. It was painful for her, I think. She felt like she'd not been a proper mum, like she'd made me feel she would judge me for liking boys."

"What about your dad?"

"She told my dad after she talked to me that mid-term of my first year but I'd already gone back. My dad was uncomfortable around me for a while when I came home for summer holiday, but that's just because he's British. Talking about sex just isn't on," Gerald says and laughs.

"My sister's gay," John says. "My parents didn't take it very well."

"Well, there you go," Gerald says, as if that explains everything.

"What do you mean,  _there you go_?"

"No wonder you didn't want to admit you were gay. Bisexual, I mean. Because you  _do_  like women, right?"

"Yeah," John says, not sounding very enthusiastic, which Gerald picks up on immediately.

"That doesn't sound very convincing," he says, sounding slightly smug.

"Oh, you think you've completely turned me off women forever, is that it?" John asks, rising up onto his elbow to look at Gerald.

Gerald's hair is spread out on the pillow behind him, a black splash against the ivory pillow cases. A study in monochrome. He likes Gerald's long hair because he's always liked burying his hands into a luxurious head of hair. He used to fantasize about pushing his fingers into Sherlock's hair, tangling it up, fisting it and pulling his head back to expose that ridiculously long, white neck. John swallows hard and closes his eyes, his desire morphing into a tight pain in his chest. John feels Gerald's hand cup his shoulder before sliding down and taking his hand, their fingers tangling together. John doesn't open his eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Gerald asks softly.

John shakes his head; the last thing he wants to do while lying naked in the bed of a sexy stranger is talk about Sherlock. So he's shocked as hell when he starts talking about it anyway. He's never told anyone about his feelings for Sherlock and it's like opening a floodgate. He spills it all out, sometimes sobbing, sometimes laughing, the story far from chronologically cohesive. The whole time, Gerald never looks at him with impatience or pity.

It's four in the morning before John stops talking. He's utterly exhausted. Gerald's head is lying on John's chest and John is absentmindedly threading his fingers through Gerald's hair, his fingertips catching on tangles every now and again. The perfume of Gerald's hair is spicy and fruity; John wraps two fingers around a thick lock and brings it up to his nose to pull the scent in deeper.

"Did you just smell my hair?" Gerald asks, his voice teasing.

"I did," John says without self-consciousness and then lifts his head off the pillow to bury his nose against Gerald's scalp, sniffing with cartoonish exaggeration.

Gerald laughs. "Hair kink?"

"Hm," John murmurs thoughtfully. "Not a large enough pool of subjects to extrapolate data from," he answers, sounding exactly like Sherlock, reminding him of the two hours he's just spent talking about him. He tells Gerald, "You're so easy to talk to."

Gerald chuckles. "I'm a therapist, remember? I've always been that way, the person my friends and family come to when they need to talk. I think it's because I have an open face and an unthreatening personality. People can tell I'm not going to judge them or try to fix them."

"Isn't fixing people basically what a therapist is supposed to do?" John asks.

"God, no," Gerald says, sounding irritated. "My job isn't to fix anyone. I get clients who get angry at me because they're still having issues after months of therapy and I'm like, look, you're the one who refuses to accept any responsibility. 'Well, but my wife left me. I didn't do anything wrong.'" Gerald is getting agitated, his voice louder. This is a sore subject, one he very clearly needs to vent about. "They don't get that it's not accepting responsibility for other people's decisions. It's accepting responsibility for their  _own_  decisions and feelings. 'I get that you're not to blame for your wife leaving you. But just because she hurt you doesn't mean her  _intention_  was to hurt you.' So many idiots confuse perception with intent, which is  _literally_  a developmental milestone you're supposed to have grown out of before adolescence. By the time a child is eight years old, they've begun to separate their perception of events from other people's intent.

"For example, if you trip over someone's foot and hurt yourself, that doesn't automatically mean they  _intended_  for you to get hurt and it's certainly not the first assumption you should make. In fact, humans are well equipped to differentiate between a threat and an accidental or collateral injury. It's hardwired into our neurons. So, unless someone has autism or another neurological disorder that prevents them from classifying facial expressions and body language, then blaming other people for their problems just makes them a stubborn arsehole."

There's silence for a moment before John starts sniggering. Gerald pinches his nipple in retaliation.

"Shut up," Gerald says with mock petulance. "Therapists need to talk about their feelings, too, you know."

"But if the world wasn't full of stubborn arseholes, you wouldn't have a job," John points out.

"Pfft. Stubborn arseholes are part of the reason why I became a Dom slash therapist instead of sitting in a tastefully decorated room listening to someone complain about their life when they just keep making the same mistakes over and over again," Gerald says. Then, apropos of nothing blurts out, "Will I see you again?"

John stills his hand for a minute on top of Gerald's head, trying to catch up.

"Course you will," John murmurs. "Why would you not see me again?"

"It's just, I thought maybe - since this was the first time - you might feel, you know," Gerald finishes with a frustrated groan. He turns his face into John's chest.

"You thought I would be too ashamed to see you again?" John guesses.

Gerald lifts his head, brings his arm up and rests his chin on the back of his hand so he can look at John's face.

"Not ashamed, no," Gerald says. "I just wondered if this was more about getting that whole  _first time_  business out of the way."

"You mean, you thought I was using you?" John asks, slightly indignant, then realizes Gerald has only known him roughly twelve hours and has every right to ask.

"It's not anything you did, I promise. It's just that, well, clearly you're still very much in love with Sherlock and I didn't think you would want more than, you know, a one night stand."

Gerald pauses and John knows he's trying to think of how to phrase whatever he's about to say next. John braces himself for a lecture about letting go and moving on, like he's not aware that's the accepted route grief should take, so he's surprised by what Gerald actually says.

"The thing is," Gerald says carefully. "I don't do sex-only relationships. I'm not - I don't get  _around_  much, really. I certainly don't have sex with men I've just met. Ever."

"To be fair, it was more like a mutual wank," John says, trying to sound lighthearted but coming out sounding dismissive instead. "I mean, it's not exactly  _sex_. Honestly, I'm not sure I could handle having sex with someone right now."

"First of all, if someone else is involved, it's sex. Second of all, I'm glad you're not in a rush because I like to take my time."

"How many men have you had sex with?" John asks, and then immediately rushes to apologize for his rudeness.

"It's okay, John," Gerald says, patting John's hip. "But the answer depends on what you mean by  _sex_."

"Okay, well, what do  _you_  mean by  _sex_ ," John asks.

"Well, to me, if I touch someone's genitals with any part of my body and it leads to an orgasm for him or myself or both, then we've had sex."

"According to that, you and I've had sex," John says, sounding more skeptical than he means to.

"Yes, I do, but I reckon what you're asking is how many men I've had  _anal_  sex with," Gerald says wryly.

John's face colors with heat. "Sorry, I'm, that was insensitive of me."

"No, not at all. It's what we're taught living in a heteronormative society, which is why I emphasized the difference. If you want to fully integrate yourself into the LGBQT community, these are things you need to know. Secret handshakes and stuff. And the answer to your question is two."

"My question?" John mumbles and then remembers his question and can't disguise his prurient fascination. "Oh, my God,  _really_? Only two?"

Gerald laughs. "I knew that's how you would react! Yes, only two."

"And was this - was Cyril one of them?"

"No, we never got that far. They were both serious relationships. One I was with for about five years. The other I was with for six. I've been single for well over a year. So this is the first sex I've had in almost two years," Gerald says and then pauses and looks at John with narrowed eyes for a minute. "Do you understand what I'm saying about how we define sex?"

"I feel like this is a trick question," John says.

"It's really not."

John shrugs, afraid of saying something that will call attention to how very pedestrian John's worldview is. He doesn't want to disappoint Gerald, so he says nothing.

"Sorry," Gerald says.

"It's okay."

"I feel like I'm lecturing you, but I've never been involved with someone who was straight for their entire life."

"Not straight anymore," John points out.

"Definitely not straight anymore," Gerald agrees. "I suppose, though, that I want you to understand that for me, and for many gay people, the word  _sex_  refers to sexual acts. I mean, consider lesbians. They don't have penises. They can still penetrate but only with their fingers or a dildo but millions of lesbians would rip your head off for suggesting that they're not having sex with their girlfriend if all they ever use is their fingers and their mouth. To me, that makes gay sex more intimate because we're not just getting things out of the way so we can get to the part where someone penetrates someone else. I've always felt sorry for straight women. I imagine most men only use foreplay as a means to penetration and don't bother otherwise."

"Yeah, I was kind of unusual in that way," John agrees.

"I bet you were every woman's wet dream," Gerald says and strokes his hand up and down John's stomach. "Now you're every man's wet dream."

"I swear if you say  _penetrate_  or  _penis_  or even  _wet dream_  one more time, I will combust," John says hoarsely.

"Don't make fun," Gerald chides, sounding a little hurt.

"I'm fucking serious, mate," John says. "My dick is rock hard."

John feels Gerald turn his head before murmuring, "So it is."

Then his hand is reaching out and wrapping around John's cock and his head is coming up so they can kiss and when the sun comes up an hour later, they're lying in a panting, sweaty, sticky heap of post-coital bliss.

"I do want to, though," John says out of the blue.

"Want to what?" Gerald asks, his voice drowsy.

"Be penetrated. You know. By you."

Gerald breaks out in a cackling laugh that's so out of context with his gentle, classy exterior that John joins in the laughter even as he's poking Gerald in the ribs, annoyed.

"I'm serious, Gerald," John says managing to sound irritated while laughing.

"I know, I know," Gerald agrees. "It was just so, I mean that whole conversation was an hour ago!"

"Yes, but I was thinking about it  _now_  and I just wanted you to know that it's something I think I'd like to have with  _you_ ," John says, feeling emotionally vulnerable.

Gerald looks over at him, his brows drawn together, looking pleasantly surprised.

"Yeah," he murmurs, leaning close and kissing John's cheek. "I think I want that with you, too."

"Good," John says, turning his head towards Gerald. He grins. "Very good."

"Yeah," Gerald says, also grinning. "It is, isn't it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for next chapter: graphic depictions of violence


	4. New Orleans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock lands in New Orleans as he begins to dismantle Moriarty's criminal empire.
> 
> _Sherlock isn’t happy about the fact that fifty people know he’s likely to have sex with the target. He’s always been an intensely private man, though not because he cares what people think. So, he’s surprised at how defensive he gets at the homophobic reception he encounters when he’s briefed by the FBI after landing in New Orleans._

* * *

**January 2012**

Four months after faking his death, Sherlock is on a plane bound for New Orleans, Louisiana where he will work with the FBI to begin dismantling the human trafficking ring that spans two continents and is spearheaded by four of Moriarty's lieutenants. These are the men who answered to nobody but Moriarty.

Sherlock has just spent four wasted months in an MI6 semi-secret facility training how to do what he's already been doing since he was a teenager - how to blend in, observe, collect data, and neutralize any impediments to the completion of the mission.

Sherlock is now, finally, on his way to doing what he needs to do to get the target off his back and, therefore, from off John's back and everyone else Sherlock loves. Mycroft wanted Sherlock to hide out in the countryside, but he knew it was a lost cause before he even introduced the idea to Sherlock because Sherlock is more of a danger to John if he's left idle than if he's sent out to do something to help rid the world of the tangled web Moriarty spun. Besides, Sherlock is a valuable asset - he's the only person in the world who knows the way Moriarty thinks.

The FBI and MI6 have already coordinated with each other; a target and mission have been set. All Sherlock must do is see it through to the end without either getting killed or blowing his cover. The target is a man called Blaine Whitney, the second in command. Blaine Whitney is gay, something only a handful of people in the world know. As Sherlock is constantly reminded, "over five hundred hours of surveillance and the death of an FBI agent has gone into finding out this information."

Whitney has a wife and son in New Orleans, but he keeps a flat in the French Quarter where he takes his lovers. He keeps his lovers for more than one night but not longer than three weeks. It's also likely, or so the FBI and MI6 hope, that Whitney may store evidence of his criminal activities at the flat. Anything that Sherlock finds that might help them to dismantle the New Orleans branch of the trafficking ring is to be recorded and turned into Sherlock’s FBI handler, Emery Tate.

The mission was outlined for Sherlock when he was still on the private jet that took him over the Atlantic. There are three bars in the French Quarter where Whitney goes to pick up his sexual partners, and they’re all being avidly watched by FBI agents. Sherlock and Tate will stay in a hotel in the French Quarter close enough to these establishments that Sherlock can reach them within ten minutes. As soon as they get confirmation that Whitney has settled in one of these bars, Sherlock will walk in and use his considerable skills in seduction to get picked up by Whitney.

Both the American and English teams know that this is the plan, which means they all know that Sherlock’s sexuality, while not explicitly acknowledged, is clearly fluid enough to allow him to go undercover as a gay man to seduce another gay man, after which gay sex acts will almost certainly take place. Sherlock isn’t happy about the fact that fifty people know he’s likely to have sex with the target. He’s always been an intensely private man, though not because he cares what people think. So, he’s surprised at how defensive he gets at the homophobic reception he encounters when he’s briefed by the FBI after landing in New Orleans.

Sherlock is standing in the FBI satellite office with two men. One is his handler, Emery Tate. The other is the Special Agent in Charge, Lester Bradley. They are both very good at what they do and Sherlock knows better than to underestimate them. Five minutes into the meeting, though, Sherlock is gnawing on his thumbnail and ready to throw something. He and Bradley are engaged in verbal warfare and Sherlock knows he should resist, but he’s wired from spending fourteen hours on a plane with the contingent of MI6 agents Mycroft sent to babysit him. The nastier Bradley gets, the more imperious and disdainful Sherlock gets, which pisses Bradley off and round and round they go.

“You looking forward to gettin’ some, Holmes?” the SAC asks, leering.

Sherlock can guess what he means by  _gettin’ some_  but he plays it safe and says tersely, “I’m looking forward to destroying Moriarty’s people.”

“He’s an ugly fucker,” Bradley says. “Wouldn’t wanna be in your position. ‘Course, I’m too ugly for a man to find me attractive, but you have a pretty face. I’m sure he’ll like you just fine.”

Sherlock says nothing.

“I don’t know how you’ll do it, Holmes,” Tate says and shudders. “My skin crawls just thinking about him looking at me.”

“Holmes here’s British. They’re a little more… _liberal_  ‘bout them kinda things,” Bradley says in his faux  _good ole’ boy_  voice.

Sherlock can’t hide the look of disbelief that crosses his face at this proclamation.

“In case you’ve forgotten,” Sherlock says coldly, looking at Bradley and then at Tate. “We are bringing down a human trafficking ring. Women are being turned into prostitutes when their only crime is wanting American citizenship - “

“Oh, fuck you, Holmes. You European agents are all the same. You think you’re so fucking superior to Americans - “

“If you don’t want me here, Bradley, why isn’t one of your agents in my place? Oh, wait, let me guess - taking down a  _human trafficking ring_ is apparently not important enough for one of them to get down on their knees and suck a bit of cock - “

“Okay, that’s  _enough_!” Bradley roars, jumping to his feet. Then to Tate, he says, “Get him out of here!”

Tate rushes to chivvy Sherlock out of the office as he and Bradley stare daggers at each other.

“Listen, I’m sorry, that was my fault - “

“Shut the fuck up,” Sherlock says, his voice cold steel.

Tate shuts the fuck up.

~*~

Tate doesn’t talk during the drive to their hotel, and Sherlock gradually begins to relax. He needs to get out and walk the French Quarter and surrounding area, to breathe in the smell of New Orleans and interact with her people, to immerse himself in this city of contradictions. New Orleans is a fusion of decadence and innocence, of darkness and light. New Orleans is a metaphor for Sherlock and John.

New Orleans is also the perfect place to establish a headquarters for a human trafficking ring. There is the long stretch of coastline on the Gulf of Mexico including the vast network of bayous and swamps along the coast. New Orleans is on the Mississippi River, which feeds into most of the major and minor rivers of America, and runs all the way to Duluth, Minnesota where it meets up with the St. Louis River which empties into Lake Superior. It is the water highway of America. It gives the enterprise a way into Canada and, through Louisiana and into Texas, a way into Mexico. If the FBI and MI6, i.e., Sherlock, can get near the leadership, they can take down the entire structure.

Sherlock knows that his hunt for Moriarty’s people is about revenge as much as protecting John, but there’s guilt and shame mixed in as well. He loved playing the game with Moriarty. In his very darkest moments, he misses Moriarty and their little dance. He wanted to impress Moriarty just as much as he wanted to stop him. His confrontation with Moriarty on the rooftop of St. Bart’s wasn’t only a blow to Sherlock’s belief in his own supremacy, it was a glimpse into the abyss that Sherlock has been skirting for too many years to count.

When you’re the smartest person in the room, but rarely praised for it; when you know all the answers but nobody wants to hear them; when nobody can understand you because the way you think seems to them like magic, rather than logic, you spend your life in isolation. There is always a darkness creeping up behind you, flanking you, threatening to overpower you. What’s the point of being a genius when you have no audience?

John isn’t just the audience to Sherlock’s genius, though. He’s the light in the cold dark; the hymn in the empty church; the path through the thorn-sharp thicket. Without John, Sherlock may as well be living in a vacuum. Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of Sherlock. John is his heart and he’ll do whatever it takes to obliterate that threat.

~*~

Blaine Whitney has a legitimate business, a financial or insurance company of some type. Sherlock hasn’t bothered memorizing the details despite Tate’s insistence. It’s much easier maintaining his cover if he doesn’t have to fake  _not_  knowing something, especially if he  _shouldn’t_ know it. Honestly, no wonder the FBI and MI6 couldn’t catch Moriarty, if learning every fact about the target in a rote schoolroom fashion is their idea of preparation. Too much of life is lived unpredictably to waste time learning facts instead of gathering information  _in situ_.

Sherlock has no compunctions about seducing Blaine Whitney. All he cares about is destroying Moriarty and he has no problem fucking someone to do that. Sherlock is good at turning off his moral compass, especially when it comes to sex. He’s never had an interest in romance but he has always had a very high libido. It’s taken him years to rein it in, and now he gets to let it out of its cage and hope it doesn’t destroy him.

Sherlock is posing as a history professor from London, in the area to research the birth of Creole. His alias is Colin Green. If Blaine chooses to investigate Colin Green’s background, he’ll find plenty on the Internet to convince him Sherlock is who he claims to be. On Sherlock’s fourth night in New Orleans, Blaine is spotted in one of the places he frequents to pull sexual partners and Sherlock gets the order to go.

He spots Blaine as soon as he walks in. Blaine is not quite, as Bradley so inelegantly described him, “an ugly fucker.” He’s three inches taller than Sherlock has broad shoulders, and is well-muscled without being bulky. He certainly doesn’t look like he heads a human trafficking ring. His dark brown eyes are large and round, and ringed in thick black lashes. He keeps his light, golden-brown hair cut neatly, and his skin is the same color as his hair.

It’s a Wednesday night and, according to the chalk sign over the bar, drinks are half off. Sherlock sits down on a bar stool close enough to Blaine that he’ll be able to lean over to talk to Sherlock but not so close as to make Blaine nervous. When the bartender comes over, Sherlock orders Hennessy. Aside from the fact that Sherlock likes cognac, it’s the kind of classy drink that makes a statement.

Tucked into Blaine’s flat front khakis is a button-down shirt in aubergine. Underneath he wears a plain white t-shirt. His cuffs are rolled to his forearms. Black monk straps with a double buckle complete the ensemble. A boiled wool coat in navy is thrown over the back of his barstool. It’s January, and even New Orleans is subject to the cold grasp of winter. Blaine’s clothes show his body to its best advantage without being fussy.

Sherlock is dressed in light grey chinos and a blue V-neck jumper over a light blue collared shirt. The hem and cuffs of his shirt are visible, giving him a rumpled, and – he hopes – professorial appearance. He sheds his brown corduroy jacket as soon as he gets in the bar. The clothes are comfortable and not wholly different from what he’s used to wearing. He hasn’t had to change his hair or anything else of significance, which is always a plus. They’re not the brands a professor can afford, but they make a statement.  _I’m classy, wealthy, well-educated and here for the same thing as you_. The bar isn’t a gay bar, as such, but it’s known as a place to hook up with other men, and the average age of its patrons is thirty-nine. Since Blaine doesn’t go for young men - too prone to sentiment, too unpredictable - Sherlock doesn’t even have to fake a different personality.

It takes Blaine a mere twenty-seven minutes to chat him up. After another eighty excruciating minutes of tedious conversation, Blaine asks Sherlock to leave with him. As soon as they’re out of the bar, Blaine drags him around the corner and kisses him. Blaine’s lips are bruising in their intensity. Sherlock knows it’s been almost two months since Blaine’s last lover and his lips attack Sherlock’s with a desperate hunger.

Sherlock should be surprised at the feeling of desire that unfurls low in his belly as Blaine’s tongue breaches his lips, but he’s not. Sherlock used to share Blaine’s method for acquiring lovers until John moved in. After that, Sherlock only allowed himself the rare one night stand. He knew from the moment they met that he was attracted to John, but it wasn't until Moriarty strapped the latest fashion in exploding outerwear on John that Sherlock realized he was in love with him. Sherlock hasn't slept with anyone since then. 

When Blaine’s hands cup Sherlock’s arse, all that pent-up lust comes tumbling out of him, along with a moan. Encouraged, Blaine angles a leg in between Sherlock’s and Sherlock shamelessly grinds his burgeoning erection against Blaine’s thigh. Blaine groans in sympathy and pushes his brawny hands under Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock hisses as cold fingers plow furrows in his skin from waist almost to shoulder. Blaine’s hands are impeded by Sherlock’s clothes.

Sherlock begins to get lost in the fog of sexual desire, and when Blaine unbuttons Sherlock’s trousers, he doesn’t immediately react. When Blaine jerks down the zipper and the icy air hits his erection, though, he shoves Blaine away.

“Stop,” Sherlock snaps and puts himself back together.

“Come home with me,” Blaine murmurs into Sherlock’s ear. “My apartment is only a few blocks away.”

Sherlock can’t answer because his mouth is once again assaulted by Blaine’s. Blaine slides his tongue along Sherlock’s, then swirls it around, sliding out, sucking as he goes. Abruptly, he lets go of Sherlock’s tongue and body, leaving Sherlock stumbling.

“Careful,” Blaine says, amused, and reaches for Sherlock’s hips to steady him.

Sherlock attempts to rearrange his clothes into a semblance of decency while ignoring Blaine’s grin. He’s also stalling for time while he thinks.

“I can’t. I’ve just arrived from London today and the airline lost my luggage,” Sherlock says, the lie fabricated on the spot in case he decides not to go home with Blaine tonight. “I don’t even have a toothbrush.”

“God, your fucking  _voice_. It’s so fucking  _hot_ ,” Blaine groans.

He takes Sherlock’s hand and presses it against his crotch, ostensibly to make clear how  _hot_ , exactly, he finds Sherlock’s voice. Despite his irritation, Sherlock indulges in rubbing the heel of his hand against Blaine’s erection and smiles viciously when Blaine parts his lips and sucks in a shuddering breath.

“Why don’t I just talk while you toss off in the alley?” Sherlock asks, letting that public-school arrogance infuse his voice.

“No,” Blaine says, his fingers reaching up to pinch Sherlock’s lips closed. It hurts but Sherlock refuses to squirm out of Blaine’s grip. “I wanna fuck.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says and doesn’t have to fake the imperious note in his voice. Men like Blaine love men like Sherlock. It’s a simple example of wanting what you can’t have except in this case, Blaine gets to have him.

“Fuck,” Blaine groans and grabs Sherlock again.

The two of them are kissing and rutting against each other for a good ten minutes before Blaine pulls away. They’re both panting.

“Come home with me,” Blaine says again but without the aggressive confidence of earlier. He’s far more undone than Sherlock and Sherlock is fucking undone.

Sherlock hesitates. The minute he goes home with Blaine, he’s on his own. He can contact Tate via his mobile, but there won’t be any quick rescue if Blaine hurts him, and even though there’s no evidence that Blaine treats his lovers anything but courteously (and bounteously, to go by the price tags on some of his gifts), Sherlock wants to make sure his cock isn’t the one making the decision for him.

Sherlock nods once and Blaine’s face breaks out into boyish delight. Sherlock can almost forget he runs a human trafficking ring.

~*~

Blaine’s flat in the French Quarter must cost thousands of dollars a month, and yet it’s only two bedrooms. It’s tastefully decorated in a style Sherlock thinks of as Wealthy White Man. Wood paneling, dark leather couches. Lots of brown and black and expensive wood.

“Drink?” Blaine asks, hanging up his jacket. He takes Sherlock’s, too.

“If I wanted a drink, I would have stayed at the bar,” Sherlock says, making his voice low and seductive.

Inside the flat, Blaine’s persona changes. He’s a life-long bottom, which is part of the reason an agent had to die to get the information that Blaine is gay - being caught fucking another man might be forgiven by Blaine’s Catholic family and the other (largely Catholic) criminals he works with, but taking it up the arse? Unforgivable. This is the only place Blaine allows himself to completely lose his heterosexual shell and the transformation is almost comical.

“Do you need a drink, Blaine?” Sherlock purrs, stalking towards Blaine with predatory ease. “A little Dutch courage, perhaps?”

“I was just being polite, Colin,” Blaine says, tilting his head back. He’s looking down his nose at Sherlock but somehow makes it seem coquettish.

“I hardly think there’s a need for pleasantries at this point,” Sherlock says, stopping right in front of him.

He reaches for the top button on Blaine’s shirt. This is the first time he’s been shorter than someone he’s had sex with and it’s disconcerting. Height makes a difference in power differential, something he’s never considered, a shocking oversight on his part. Is height the reason why John has always been so faithful in following him? Does he see Sherlock as having more authority than him? No, that’s ridiculous. John is full of his own quiet authority. On cases, Sherlock has authority because that’s his expertise. Hell, Lestrade is almost the same height as Sherlock and he’s an idiot. A very competent idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.

Now is not the time to be thinking about Lestrade and it’s definitely not the time to be thinking of John.

Sherlock turns undressing Blaine into the sartorial equivalent of foreplay - he strokes a fingertip over every button before slipping it through the placket. Every few buttons, he skims his lips over Blaine’s but pulls away before tongues can get involved. The fate of hundreds of women (and John) lies in Sherlock’s ability to seduce Blaine so well that he keeps Sherlock around long enough for Sherlock to gather the intel he needs. Blaine can pay for sex if he has no other options. Sherlock needs Blaine to need him. Blaine should be so besotted that he lowers his guard.

By the time Sherlock has undressed Blaine down to his pants, Blaine is breathing hard and his pupils have almost blotted out his irises. His lids are at half-mast because his pupils are so large that the light is too bright. Sherlock is still dressed and Blaine’s hands are reaching for his buttons with clumsy intent and Sherlock takes that opportunity to slip his fingers into Blaine’s pants. He takes a few steps away, his fingers tugging from inside the waistband of Blaine's pants. He follows obediently and Sherlock almost laughs. Blaine's pants have turned into a leash.

Sherlock leads Blaine to his own bedroom with nothing but two fingers. Blaine could brush past him to get there first, but he doesn’t. He falter-steps along in Sherlock’s wake, utterly agog. Inside the bedroom, Sherlock turns to Blaine, lines his body up against Blaine’s and then puts slow pressure on him, forcing him to walk backwards or get stepped on. Blaine doesn’t look back to see where he’s going and ends up tumbling onto his own bed with a surprised face. This time Sherlock does laugh.

“You said you wanted to fuck,” Sherlock says, with an aristocratic arch of his eyebrows. “Let’s fuck.”

Sherlock drags Blaine’s preparation out in the same way he did undressing him. It’s not necessary to keep adding the slippery gel to his fingers or to keep pushing them in and out of Blaine’s arsehole, but Sherlock does it anyway. Blaine’s prick drips and drips, and still Sherlock fucks him with his fingers, letting the tip of his middle finger caress Blaine’s prostate at random intervals. He takes his fingers out altogether and Blaine’s focus zeroes on Sherlock. Sherlock strokes Blaine’s dick, his grip too tight, the strokes just enough for Blaine to begin panting, and then he stops and shoves three fingers back into Blaine. Another drop of pre-cum falls on Blaine’s belly. Sherlock takes a savage pleasure in watching Blaine’s face as he twists and pulls inside Blaine’s body.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes!” Blaine yelps as Sherlock presses too hard on his prostate.

“I’ll do it, if you want me to, but you have to ask.”

“You want me to beg?” Blaine asks, trying for dismissive but sounding eager instead.

“What makes you think I want you to beg?” Sherlock asks, with a tilt of his head.

Another furious twist of his wrist and another drop of pre-ejaculate plops on top of the puddle of existing fluid on Blaine’s belly.

“Fuck me,” Blaine moans.

“You only had to ask,” Sherlock says.

Sherlock doesn’t bother undressing. He unfastens his trousers and pushes trousers and pants down to mid-thigh, pulls on a condom, squeezes some gel on it and then pushes into Blaine with one vicious thrust. Blaine cries out, and Sherlock stops, worried he’s been too rough. The look on Blaine’s face is ecstasy and his hands scrabble for purchase on Sherlock’s biceps. Blaine calls out the name of a man who doesn’t exist and that makes fucking him easier for Sherlock. He’s Colin Green right now and Mr. Green doesn’t know Dr. Watson and, therefore, has no reason to feel guilty for fucking a man who runs in human trafficking.

Sherlock fucks Blaine with his cock the same way he fucked him with his fingers – slowly, inexorably, ferociously.

There’s an illicit thrill and a brutal pleasure in fucking Blaine. He looks at Sherlock like Sherlock has opened a secret door into a pleasure heretofore unknown. In fact, he looks at Sherlock like he’s opened a door to an entire new way of living. The fact that Sherlock hasn’t even undressed, the disdain he shows towards Blaine (which he doesn’t have to fake) makes Blaine want him even more. It will become a push and pull between them for the next five weeks. The more he wants Sherlock and the less Sherlock gives, the harder Blaine falls.

For now, though, Sherlock loses himself in a slow fuck, a long, sensual slide towards orgasm with a step that’s just above homeostasis so that his orgasm sneaks up on him, rips through him, shredding meat and bone. Fireflies of light dance to the edges of his vision and still he’s coming. Blaine fists his own dick furiously, breathing  _Colin Colin Colin_  as he does and comes with a furious spurt of semen that shoots so far that it lands on his chin. When they’re both done, Sherlock scoops a fingertip of semen from Blaine’s chin and puts it against Blaine’s lips.

“I’ve never tasted my own cum,” Blaine says, panting.

He’s not flirting or challenging Sherlock. He’s making a declaration.  _I’ve never tasted my own cum and I’m not about to start now_. Sherlock says nothing. He keeps his fingertip lightly pressed on Blaine’s lip, not pushing in but not pulling away, and waits. He doesn’t have to wait long. After eleven seconds, Blaine closes his mouth over Sherlock’s fingertip and sucks the semen off it. Sherlock pulls back his hand and Blaine lets go of his finger with a pop.

Sherlock smiles slowly, a dangerous, soft smile. He pulls out of Blaine, ties off the condom and drops it on Blaine’s stomach. Then he tucks himself away and walks out of the bedroom.

“Call me if you want me to fuck you again,” he says over his shoulder.

It only took Sherlock twenty minutes in the bar to determine Blaine’s sexual fantasies and Sherlock has just fulfilled them all. Sherlock is the bait, the hook, the fishing line, and the fisherman - Sherlock is everything Blaine has ever wanted and Blaine wants it all.

~*~

Five weeks later, Sherlock gets caught downloading information from Blaine’s laptop to his phone. Blaine is supposed to be sleeping - Sherlock made sure of it by dropping an orally disintegrating barbiturate tab in his wine before they went to bed. Sherlock has done the same thing three times before and it always works. It should’ve worked this time, yet Blaine is standing in the living room blinking at Sherlock, looking groggy but becoming more focused by the second.

Sherlock keeps downloading the information because there’s no point to stopping. His instructions are clear - any threat to the mission must be neutralized and there’s no grey areas for intelligence gathering. Sherlock fucked up and now Blaine must die.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Blaine asks, swaying a little where he stands.

He looks so vulnerable standing there naked, his soft penis curled up against his thigh like a sleeping mushroom. Sherlock begins to catalogue the things Blaine will never do again. He’ll never need to wear clothes again. He’ll never use his penis again. He’ll never again see his children, whom he loves, or his wife, who he doesn’t.

“I work for MI6. I’m gathering information. They want to take down your trafficking ring,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, moving closer to Blaine by increments, not wanting to startle him into action.

“You know about that?”

“Yes.”

There’s a glimpse of something desperate flickering in Blaine’s eyes. He knows exactly what’s going on here and Sherlock can almost believe that Blaine wants this to happen, that he wants to get rid of the burden of running a criminal enterprise. Maybe he’s tired of playing the straight man with the beautiful wife and two small daughters. Maybe he’s tired of never allowing himself to keep a lover longer than a few weeks. (Sherlock has been the longest.)

“But I told you I loved you,” Blaine says plaintively.

“I have to give them something,” Sherlock says. “Or they’ll - “

Sherlock stops, looks stricken. Holds the pose.

Sherlock reminds himself of the other things Blaine won’t need once he’s dead. He’ll never need to kidnap women. He’ll never need to turn them into prostitutes. He’ll never need to pull another lover in the pub three streets down.

“What happens if you don’t?” Blaine asks.

Sherlock looks distraught. “They’ll take me out.”

“Like kill you?”

“They will kill me,” Sherlock says.

It’s a ridiculous lie, but Sherlock can see the resolve in Blaine’s eyes.

“I have passports and cash. I can get you what you need, too. We can get into Mexico and then you can disappear,” Blaine says.

“What about you?” Sherlock asks.

“I can’t leave my kids, but once you’re safely away, and they stop coming after you, I can get you set up somewhere close.”

So, Sherlock leaves his phone next to the laptop connected by the little USB umbilical cord. He walks slowly over to Blaine and slides his fingers over Blaine’s jaw.

“You would do that for me?” he asks, conveying tentative hope.

“Baby, I told you. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

Blaine’s hands come up to cup Sherlock’s face and they kiss - it’s gentle and sweet.

“Come to bed,” Sherlock says, drawing him back towards the bedroom. “Let’s forget all that for just one more moment.”

Sherlock kneels over Blaine on the bed, caresses his cheek, kisses his chin and then his eyes. He moves up his chest, cold fingertips digging against Blaine's skin just enough to be pleasant, but not so light as to tickle. Gentle kisses then tender touches, until Blaine is relaxing under him, the barbiturate taking effect again.

Sherlock launches into the attack. He pins Blaine’s arms down at the elbow, presses his forearm against Blaine’s neck, wrapping his other hand around that wrist, and puts all his weight into it.

The look of betrayal on Blaine’s face is expected. The tears Sherlock sees drip, drip, dripping onto Blaine’s cheeks and forehead are unexpected. He presses soft kisses against Blaine’s jaw, the corner of his mouth, his temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as Blaine’s struggles become more aggressive. The survival instinct having one last hurrah with a dump of adrenaline. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Shh.”

He whispers it repeatedly, even as Blaine bucks and shoves his body against Sherlock, but Sherlock is stronger and heavier than he appears and Sherlock’s knees are dug into the insides of his elbow so he’s already lost feeling in his hands.

Sherlock weeps. It takes so long for him to die. One minute turns into two. Blaine’s struggles gradually decrease. Two minutes turn into three. Blaine is limp but still alive. Sherlock doesn’t take any weight off his forearm. Four minutes. Five. Six.

Sherlock’s shaking fingers don’t find a pulse. He lays his head on Blaine’s chest and waits. His heart is pounding so hard he can’t tell if Blaine’s heart is beating. He hears nothing.

Carefully, Sherlock gets off Blaine and then the bed. His legs give out and he crumples to the floor, banging the outside of his bicep on the edge of the bedside table. The motion knocks the lampshade askew - it settles at a flirty angle, tilted just slightly. He stares at Blaine’s chest, but it’s not rising and falling. There’s no heartbeat, no breath.

Sherlock’s whole body is shaking. He knows he’s on the verge of having a panic attack. He takes deep breaths, holds them, and lets them out slowly. He stands up even slower, afraid he’ll faint and Blaine will come back to life and murder him. Fanciful stuff, but he’s not really working well enough to use logic yet.

When his heart and his respiration rate have returned to normal, he calls for cleanup. He gives Tate the phone loaded with all the information he’s gathered. Mutely, he follows Tate out to the car.

Once he’s safely back in his hotel room, he buries his head into the pillow and sobs. He knows he felt nothing for Blaine and now that he’s dead, the world is relieved of one bad guy. The thing is - he knows Blaine really was in love with him. It was the kind of love that can turn a bad guy into a good guy, and Sherlock knows this because that’s the kind of love he has for John Watson.


	5. Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes the next step with Gerald. 
> 
> _For the first time since Sherlock died, John can see a future without him and that future begins with Gerald._

* * *

**May 2012**

At first, John is nervous about having Gerald in the flat because he sees so much of Sherlock there, especially in the sitting room. Two months after he meets Gerald, John has the bittersweet realization that he's gradually let his own personality take over. It’s been eight months since Sherlock died.

John hasn’t changed anything since Sherlock died, but looking around the flat, he sees things that he wants to change, though not anytime soon, and things he might change, but not for a very long time. The bottom line is that he can't cling to Sherlock forever. It's not the  _things_ that matter anyway. It's the memories he keeps and the stories he tells. When John is gone, the blog will still be out there in cyberspace, telling their story.

The first time he has Gerald in the flat, John realizes that he absolutely cannot have sex with Gerald (or anyone) in Sherlock's bed. Instead, they stay in John's old room among the boxes of Sherlock's scientific equipment, the prints and decorations from Sherlock's room, and the (many) boxes of his clothes. When John explains why they're not sleeping in the first-floor bedroom, Gerald laughs.

"You won't have sex in his bed but you will have sex up here, surrounded by his things?"

At first, John is indignant and then concedes Gerald has a valid point and perhaps they should move this down to the sofa.

"John," Gerald says kindly. "It doesn't matter where we go. You're in love with him – "

"I  _was_ in love with him."

"Are  _still_ in love with him and getting over his death, and that will always be with you even after his things aren't. And that's okay. I knew that going in, didn't I? So, whatever you're comfortable with is where we'll go."

John starts laughing and then Gerald gives him truly stunning head that ends in a mind-blanking orgasm, and John falls asleep in Gerald's arms, surrounded by Sherlock's things and feels at true peace for the first time since he saw Sherlock fall from the roof of St. Bart's.

In the middle of the night, John wakes from a nightmare. The bedside lamp is already on and his foggy, nightmare-addled brain can't comprehend why he would be in his own bed, rather than downstairs in Sherlock's bed. He has less nightmares in Sherlock's bed, which is part of the reason he started sleeping there.

Suddenly, everything comes crashing back and he looks around the room for Gerald, but all he sees are boxes of Sherlock's stuff. He grabs his pants off the floor and tugs them on while racing down the old servant's staircase tucked between the bathroom and kitchen. He calls out Gerald's name and finds him in the bathroom, bent over the sink, his hands covering his mouth and nose, blood dripping into the sink. Gerald looks at him guiltily.

"It's nothing," Gerald says, with a wave of his hand, his voice coming out hoarse and congested.

"Oh, God, if I broke your nose...Jesus Christ, Gerald, I'm so sorry. Okay, let's have a look," John says, his heart pounding out  _I'm sorry don't leave I'm sorry don't leave I'm sorry don't leave_. He doesn't think he can bear it if Gerald stops seeing him because of this.

Carefully, he peels Gerald's hand away from his face while Gerald looks everywhere but at John's face.

"It's my fault, I – "

"How the fuck is this  _your_ fault?" John asks, wanting to sound comforting, but only sounding angry.

"I should know better than to touch a man in the throes of a PTSD nightmare," Gerald says. "I was hoping I could clean up before you realized what had happened."

"Oh, thank God, your nose is fine, but I cut your lip. It's quite a split lip.  _Christ_. I must've hit you straight on with my elbow. You're gonna need stitches."

"Well, let me go by myself, then. Otherwise, they'll think you're abusive."

"Gerald, you recall I'm a doctor, yeah? I reckon I can put in a few stitches."

"Are you going to be too afraid to sleep with me again or, even worse, too embarrassed to keep seeing me?"

"What makes you say that?" John asks.

"Because I know how you are," Gerald says. Finally, he raises his eyes to look into John's.

"And here, I thought I had secrets," John says, teasing.

"Therapist," Gerald says, pointing at himself.

"Wait here while I go get my med kit," John says.

Gerald  _must_ know him well, because he's right about John being afraid of it happening again and embarrassed about hurting him. Neither of these things are enough to stop him sleeping with Gerald and certainly not enough to stop seeing him, which is a minor miracle. He's changed so much since Sherlock died. He doesn't take anything for granted anymore and he's not going to throw this away because he fucked up.

"I should've told you," John says, back in the bathroom again.

"About the PTSD?"

"Yes."

"I knew," Gerald says, looking sheepish.

"How did you – "

At the same time, they say, "Therapist," and laugh, but then Gerald winces and John shushes him.

"The answer to your question is  _no_ , by the way. I'm not going to stop seeing you  _or_ sleeping with you," John says while cleaning the wound. When Gerald tries to answer, John says, "No talking," very sharply and Gerald's mouth immediately snaps closed.

"You're very good at taking orders," John says, joking. "Sit."

Gerald drops onto the toilet seat as though his body is controlled by John's commands rather than by his own will. John is suddenly rock hard at the thought. And, of course Gerald will notice he has an erection because he's wearing nothing but his pants.

And now, John's crotch is at Gerald's eye level, but Gerald isn't looking at John's crotch. He's looking up at John's face, his own expectant and calm. Disparate bits of information suddenly come together in John's head forming a coherent picture. This must be how Sherlock does it (did it), although John's pace at putting things together is glacial compared to Sherlock's.

_My sex life is almost boringly vanilla._

_At the time, I was just getting into the Dom/sub lifestyle..._

_I've never slept with anyone I've been a Dom for._

_Whips, yes..._

"You like to sub," he says, his eyes wide with surprise.

Gerald nods and looks away. John realizes something in his voice made Gerald think John's disgusted. John bends and kisses his cheek.

"I'm just surprised is all," John says. "The professional Dom thing threw me."

"That's exactly why I like it," Gerald says, his words coming out slurred as he tries not to move his lips.

Now John's mind is whirring to life with half a dozen questions he wants answers to immediately. Before he gets those questions answered, Gerald's lip needs stitches. If John doesn't do his best, Gerald might end up with a scar, and then, for the rest of his life, anyone who looks at Gerald's face will see the scar left behind by John's hands, including Gerald. So, John will do his most precise, perfect stitches and he can only do that if he's completely focused.

"I'm gonna clean this up now and it's gonna hurt like hell. The face has lots of nerve endings."

Gerald nods, looking wary and grimly determined.

"Also, once I put these stitches in, you're going to spend the next five to seven days having to talk without moving your mouth very much. Will that affect your work?"

Gerald starts to shrug and then shakes his head.

John stares over Gerald's head, his mind whirring. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip in an unconscious gesture and doesn't realize he's doing it until he hears the tiny sound of arousal that comes out of Gerald's mouth. John's eyes flick down to Gerald. John only then realizes Gerald is naked and he's partially hard. John's own erection has flagged slightly, not out of disinterest, but because he's trying to process all this new information without losing focus on the reason they're down here in the first place.

"I don't – " John says and then stops. "Let me think about it and then we can talk about it.  _After_ you get your stitches out, though, okay? Just so you know, I'm not interested in punishing you."

Gerald's nod is very solemn.

"I think I might be more interested in doing the Dom/sub thing outside of the flat than in it. Watching you do what I say with everyone looking but not knowing what we're up to? Hot."

Gerald cocks an eyebrow  _my, my_ and tries to smile but the tear in his lip pulls. He winces and brings his hand up to his lip.

John snaps, "Drop your hand," before Gerald touches his lip, not to test his new power, but to minimize exposure to germs. (Human hands and mouths have a higher concentration of germs than anywhere on the human body, including the anorectal region.)

Gerald's hand drops into his lap like the tendons were cut, and his eyes snap to John's.

"My God, it's like playing Simon Says, but with erections," John says and laughs.

Gerald tries to laugh too, but he can't open his mouth without pulling on his split lip, so he ends up making a sound like  _hoo hoo hoo_ , and John throws his head back and howls with laughter. It echoes all over the bathroom and that makes Gerald do his  _hoo hoo hoo_ laugh again, trying not to move his mouth. John has to leave the bathroom for a minute, trying to get himself under control because the more he laughs, the more Gerald laughs. When John walks back into the bathroom Gerald is still sitting on the toilet. His hands are flat on his thighs, his shoulders are back, but his posture is relaxed. It's roughly the equivalent of parade rest, if one was sitting.

"All right, then," John says and avoids Gerald's eyes because he knows if they lock eyes again, he'll collapse in laughter.

He pulls two clean towels out of the cabinet, one for Gerald to sit on (because his poor arse is probably stuck to the porcelain with sweat by now) and one to lay in his lap to catch everything.

"Stand up over here, please," John says. He realizes that if he's going to do this Dom/sub business with Gerald, that's going to be one of his hard limits – he gets to say  _please_ and  _thank you_ and all the other niceties of social convention. He likes the idea of Gerald doing what he says, but not if it means John's going to forget how to be polite.

John lays down the first towel and tells Gerald to sit ( _please)_ and then he lays the second towel over his lap. He sets some things down on the towel and asks Gerald to hold them (  _please_ ). Gerald does everything he asks with perfect obedience and precision and it's enough to make John dizzy. He's the exact opposite of Sherlock in this situation. Sherlock often went out of his way to do the opposite of what John asked, even when John was stitching him up. He would wiggle and gripe and, in general, be as difficult as possible.

Of course, he would take all the wiggling and whining and griping and love it if he could only have Sherlock back again.

Still, it's a nice change, having a patient who minds him and who doesn't question John's expertise. John's confident that Gerald will follow his directions for recovery as well, and probably to the letter, unlike half his patients at the surgery.

"Be still while I inject the Xylocaine, okay? I don't want to accidentally poke you."

Gerald nods and then turns into a statue. It's a struggle, John can see. He's pushing a needle into the meat of Gerald's bottom lip and, like John said, the face (especially the lips) and the hands are some of the most sensitive places on the human body. Everyone knows a papercut hurts more than cuts three times as big on other parts of the body.

An emotion John can't name swells inside him watching Gerald practically vibrating with the effort to stay still. Actually, it's not just one emotion. He feels proud, accountable, hesitant, aroused, excited. It's something he wants to both barrel into and hide from.

He's proud of Gerald the same way he would be proud of a subordinate who showed the same level of obedience. In the military, this obedience is imperative. In recruit training, you're broken down and then built back up as a soldier. Your safety, and that of your fellows, is dependent on your obedience. When someone yells "down" you don't poke your head over the trench to see what they're talking about. You put your head the fuck down, full stop.

He feels accountable for Gerald because of his obedience, both now and in future, if they take this step. If he gives a command without considering his responsibility to Gerald, then Gerald's obedience can hurt him. He wants to be deserving of Gerald's trust, even though it's clear Gerald has given it freely.

John feels hesitant entering a Dom/sub relationship because he's accountable for the commands he gives  _because_ Gerald will be obedient and John's not sure he wants that responsibility.

He's aroused (obvious reasons). He's excited (see  _aroused_ ).

He's thinking about all this while he's getting out everything he needs. He pulls on his headlamp (Sherlock always laughed when he put it on – Every. Single. Time.) He washes his hands thoroughly, dries them on a clean towel and then pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves.

"Tell me if you can feel this," John says, pressing around the tear in Gerald's lip.

"I can feel it, but it's mostly just pressure," Gerald says.

"Do you think you need another shot of Xylocaine?" John asks, peering at him out from under the magnifying glass on the headlamp.

Gerald shakes his head.

"You have to be absolutely still, Gerald. No flinching. I don't fancy giving you a split lip and then following it up with an ugly scar. If you think you might flinch, we can come up with a way to restrain your head."

Gerald raises his eyebrow at the suggestion and John shakes his head affectionately.

"Don't confuse medical necessity with an invitation for sexual creativity, Gerald," John says affectionately.

Gerald slumps in mock disappointment.

"Okay, then, let's get this done," Gerald says. "I won't flinch."

Four tiny stitches later, John smears antibiotic ointment on Gerald's lip, but leaves it unbandaged.

"I'm going to write you a prescription for antibiotics and I want you to take them for three days. I'll get you a probiotic, too, so you don't get an overgrowth of yeast in your gut. I have to run to the surgery to get my prescription pad."

Gerald nods, his face suddenly crumpled in exhaustion. John can see the dark circles under his eyes, even more visible on him because of his pale skin. His eyes are bloodshot and his lip is swollen from being smashed, scrubbed clean, injected with local anesthetic and then sewn up. John very gently presses a kiss to the corner of Gerald's mouth furthest away from the cut.

"I'm sorry," John whispers, leaning his forehead against Gerald's. "Do you want to try to go back to sleep? I can give you a painkiller and it'll make you a bit drowsy. Easier to sleep; two birds with one stone and all that. And I won't think you're not a proper man for not pushing through the pain."

Gerald cups John's neck with his hands, his thumbs brushing along John's jaw. He can't really smile, but Gerald's mouth doesn't have to work for John to know how he feels. Gerald's eyes are versatile in their expressiveness.

"Don't think I'm being sentimental, either," John says, pretending to bluff. "I'm just sorry I won't be receiving any of your awesome head."

Gerald chuffs laughter.

"Okay, chatty, first things first, nod yes or no – painkiller?"

Gerald nods, looking guilty for wanting it.

"None of that. You're still macho, even if you take a painkiller. Next – you okay if I run to the clinic?"

A nod.

"You look absolutely shattered, sweetheart," John says. "Let me get you to bed first, yeah?"

John fishes the packet of dihydrocodeineone out of his kit and Gerald follows him to the kitchen. John hands him a glass of water and pushes the pill out of the blister pack and hands it to Gerald, who swallows it back with water and then drinks the rest of the glass.

"You'll have to be careful with that when you're eating and drinking. You'll need straws. Lots of protein shakes and easy to chew food as well."

One of Gerald's talents is cooking and he's  _very_ talented, so the look on Gerald's face is positively heartbreaking. John makes a sympathetic face and then looks at his watch. It's almost six in the morning.

"I'm going to wait until Asda opens so I can get a few things for this. Applesauce and stuff. Don't make that face at me! I'm quite upset, too. None of those fabulous blowjobs. I'm beginning to think I love your mouth more than you."

It's meant as a tease, and the words are out before John can consider the implications. Gerald's eyes widen and then drop to the floor. John doesn't need words to interpret what Gerald's thinking.

"I do care, you know," John says quietly, after a very uncomfortable moment in which John tries to remember what they were doing before he accidentally said  _I love you_ , but didn't mean it.

Gerald lays a hand on his arm and rubs up and down.  _I feel the same_. John smiles and pulls him into a hug.

~*~

A week after John gave Gerald a split lip, they go to a furniture store and John buys a new bed. When it's delivered, he has the workers move Sherlock's bed upstairs and they take away the old bed from the second-floor bedroom.

That weekend, Gerald helps John move all the boxes from the second-floor bedroom to the storage space that faces the street on the second floor. (John didn’t even know the space was there until Mrs. Hudson suggested it in favor of giving away Sherlock's stuff. It answers his question of why his bedroom doesn't take up the whole of the second floor.)

"Mycroft's paying the rent on both rooms," John says, as they look at the almost empty room. "But I can't for the life of me think what to do with it. Quite frankly, I can't be arsed to do anything with it any time soon."

All that's left in the room is Sherlock's old bed, a desk and chair, the bedside table, and a small lamp. John never did anything but sleep and dress in this room. Everything John thinks of as  _home_ is located on the first floor. The bathroom on the second floor was never finished, so even using the toilet and taking a shower required him to go down to the first floor.

“You don't have to do anything right now,” Gerald says and wraps his arms around John from behind. “Consider turning it into a guest room eventually. You never know when you might need one.”

“I don’t know enough people to have guests,” John says, turning around in Gerald’s arms.

He leans in to kiss Gerald whose stitches have only been out a day and whose lips John has been aching for. They've avoided sex since Gerald got his stitches. The first time John tried to give him head afterwards, Gerald almost tore his stitches crying out when he came and after John had stopped laughing, they decided to wait.

John loves kissing Gerald. His lips are soft and he's responsive to the tiniest nips and pecks. It's a microcosm of his responsiveness to touch altogether. John asked him a week after they met if he'd always been that responsive and Gerald's eyes had got a bit shifty, prompting John to conclude the answer was no, but Gerald was unwilling to admit it, probably because he was afraid to drive John away with an admission like that so early in their relationship.

"Let's go christen your new bed," Gerald murmurs against John's lips.

John has often compared the voices of Gerald and Sherlock. They both have deep voices, but where Sherlock's was a rumbling almost-bass, Gerald's is a clear baritone. Gerald's voice is sweet; Sherlock's voice was sultry.

When he's aroused, though, the clear timbre of Gerald's voice changes to a hoarser version and, though it still lacks the rumble Sherlock's had, John has a Pavlovian response to that coarser tone. After ten days of deprivation, he's rock hard upon hearing the words spoken in that voice.

" _God_ , yes," John says and tears down the back stairs.

Gerald's lip is still red from the stitches John took out the day before. It'll heal nicely, and the scar will only be visible up close. Every time John looks at it, he remembers Gerald sitting on the toilet seat half-hard, eager to comply with any command John chooses to give. The scar, the voice, and the deprivation all coalesce into one aching mass of need deep inside John and when Gerald stops in front of him in the bedroom, two seconds behind John's more mad dash, John's decision is made.

"I'm ready for you to, to take me." He fumbles the words, not knowing how to ask for what he wants without using words like "anal" and "penetrate."

Gerald's eyes widen in surprise, though he does his best to cover it. They've had lots of anal play, but never sex. They've only discussed it a few times, and each time agreed it was a topic for the future. Gerald's sexual history is tame. He's only had six lovers and one was the six-month fling with his best friend, Cyril. Of those six, Gerald's only had anal sex with two of them. John's had far too many lovers to count, but they were all women.

Still, the one thing they've both agreed on is that John wants to experience bottoming and Gerald, who's always bottomed, would like to try topping.

"Do you still want to bottom?" Gerald asks, trying to mask his eagerness.

"Yeah," John says, stripping out of his dusty, sweaty clothes. "I'm gonna hop in the shower. You can go next, okay?"

"Okay," Gerald says a little dazedly, which makes John grin, showing all his teeth, which makes Gerald groan and remark on the arousing effect of John's high watt smile.

In the bathroom, John gets out the kit he put together on Gerald's advice regarding anorectal hygiene.  _All you need is water and a way to get it in. Your body does the rest_. Gerald's advice went a long way to easing John's worries about anal sex, whether it involved a penis or not.

John turns the fan on (no need for Gerald to hear water splashing in the toilet, but John doesn't want to turn the shower on and waste hot water), and then gathers a basin of lukewarm water and a tiny tube of silicone gel. The bulb of the douche kit is clear, which John finds ingenious because he can check for backwash and clean accordingly.

The water comes out mostly clear so two washes is all he needs. He turns the shower on, washes the bulb and tip with hot soapy water and puts it all away to dry on a towel in the lavatory cabinet. Then he washes his hands again and brushes his teeth while the shower is heating up.

The warm spray is fantastic and John makes sure to pay special attention to his crotch and rear. He exits the bathroom on a puff of hot air, scrubbing the towel over his body. His erection has flagged in the fifteen minutes he's spent in the bathroom. He's not flaccid, but his body has retreated to the first stage of arousal. Gerald wraps his hand around John's penis and gives it a few strokes while licking water off of John's neck and John's erection hardens so quickly he's dizzy at the drop in his blood pressure. He sways to a seat on the bed while Gerald raises his eyebrows in smug delight.

Ten minutes later, Gerald is out of the shower and they're kissing on the new bed and ten minutes after that, John is on his hands and knees, already panting with desire. He remembers several women he dated telling him something along the lines of  _I need you to be inside me now, dammit_ and John understands the feeling now that he's had his own prostate treated to Gerald's expert touch in the last two months.

He feels like he's being suffocated with the need to have Gerald's cock in his arse, and he won't be able to breathe again until he feels Gerald moving inside him, but Gerald refuses to rush. (Gerald, in general, despite the impression that he's constantly in motion, is a slow and steady person, which makes John crazy sometimes. Gerald is never late, but that punctuality is only achieved by a methodical approach to leaving the house, and John is usually pacing by the front door and checking his watch by the time Gerald is ready to go.)

"You're a fucking tease," John gasps as Gerald works a moderately sized vibrator into John's arse.

The shaft is four inches long, five and a half if you include the "engine" bit. It's roughly equal in circumference to three fingers, part of why John loves it so much. It fills him out nicely and the straight design means he's not likely to hit his prostate straight on when he uses it on himself, which would be too much stimulation to be comfortable. It has a fierce little engine on it, and Gerald has compared John to the vibrator many times, which always leaves John threatening bodily harm.

"Almost there," Gerald murmurs, giving John's back long, firm strokes with his clean hand.

John's erection has flagged, but Gerald has told him that's normal, especially during prep. Gerald is very observant and he notices right away when John starts to get tired of being on his hands and knees. He gets two pillows (also new, like the bed) and coaxes John onto his back, the pillows under his hips.

The new position gives John the ability to touch himself and almost as soon as he does, his cock fills with blood. His arousal is whipped to an even higher level by the sight of Gerald between his knees, a look of wonder and intense concentration on his face. Gerald is looking down at John's arse and not at John himself. John can't wait anymore.

"I'm ready," John says, his voice coming out breathy and tremulous.

"Mm," is all Gerald says, but he pulls the vibrator out slowly and then sets it on the sheet. He looks up at John, his brown eyes turned black with lust and says, "I think you would be more comfortable on top."

The wording confuses John and he opens his mouth to speak, but Gerald clarifies in the next moment when he lies down on his back and rolls on a condom before slicking himself up. John sees immediately what Gerald means. He climbs carelessly on top of Gerald who grunts when John falls onto his gut instead of his thighs.

"Sorry," John murmurs.

"No, God, don't apologize, you look fucking gorgeous. It took all my willpower not to fuck you ten minutes ago."

John positions himself. It's an awkward position in many ways, but Gerald's right in that it gives John more control over the speed of penetration. It just takes some maneuvering to get into place. Gerald ends up holding onto his own cock while John spreads his arse cheeks and lowers himself just enough that the tip of Gerald's cock is at his entrance. He lets go of his arse and puts two hands on the headboard and then uses it as leverage.

It takes a ridiculously long amount of time to get seated. Gerald's not endowed with a porn-worthy dick (though it's longer than John's by an inch in length and at least an inch in circumference), but it's still uncomfortable enough to make him wince and he has to pause periodically, leaning forward, chest pressing against Gerald's face. Gerald takes those opportunities to use his teeth and tongue on John's nipples.

John is an absolute mess by the time his body is flush with Gerald's. He's sweating and desperate to move. Gerald seems cool and unhurried by comparison until he speaks.

"Jesus,  _fuck_ , Christ," Gerald says, his throat sounding raw. He clears his throat. "Don't move because I think I'm going to come."

"Really?" John asks, his voice hoarse.

"Oh, fucking  _hell_ , John," Gerald groans, and closes his eyes. "Just, just – lift up a bit."

John pushes himself up slowly from his kneeling position and the feeling of Gerald's cock dragging out of him makes his spine shiver. Gerald's hand darts in and squeezes the base of his cock. He takes several deep breaths in and out through his nose. After about a minute, he lets go of his cock and then he nods. He opens his eyes and looks at John and his face breaks into a lazy grin.

" _Christ_ , you look so fucking gorgeous, John," Gerald says.

His hands slide up John's thighs and then up his arms and down his chest. He murmurs wordless encouragement and John begins to move. He puts his hands back on the headboard. It's more of a rocking motion than an in and out motion. He rocks forward and out, then back and in. The drag of Gerald's cock in and out of his body is possibly the most erotic sensation he's ever experienced. The psychological effect it has on him isn't a surprise, but the intensity of it is. One can argue that Gerald's penis is no different than his fingers, which have also been inside John's body.

It's nothing like his fingers, though – not physically and not psychologically. John feels like Gerald has marked him in a way, possessed him, maybe. But there's something else. He feels powerful, almost more powerful than he would if their positions were reversed. Yes, Gerald is inside him, but that's just the thing. He's holding Gerald  _inside_ his body. He's wrapped  _around_ Gerald. He  _surrounds_ Gerald.

The whole thing blows his mind. Nine months ago, he was trying to chat up a woman in a pub. Now he's got Gerald's cock up his arse and it feels more intimate than any sexual encounter in his life. Maybe it's the amount of preparation involved. He can't just push Gerald down and climb on top. No natural lubrication or stretch like with a vagina. You can't blame it on the heat of the moment or the amount of alcohol you drank beforehand. Every action is intentional. You have to make a conscious decision to stretch and slick up your receptive partner's hole.

Maybe it's that. Or maybe Gerald just means  _that much_ to John. It's something he's considered before. A future with Gerald, that is.

"Stay with me," Gerald says and John realizes he's stilled.

"Sorry," John says.

"Hand me the bottle," Gerald says, nodding at the bottle of lube.

"I'm fine," John says, thinking Gerald is worried about pain.

"No, this," Gerald says.

He pours a little gel into his palm, rubs it between both hands to warm up and then wraps a hand around John's half-erect penis and strokes a couple of times. He wraps the other hand around John's penis and strokes. John's cock loves Gerald's hands and wants to make sure he knows that, so it stiffens and purrs against his hand as he strokes it.

Gerald looks up at him and John knows – neither one of them is going to last much longer so they might as well just go for it now. There's always time to have a long, slow fuck, but that time is not now. John lifts himself up and slides back down and this time Gerald adds a thrust of his hips as John is on the downslide and it's only a few more minutes before Gerald comes. He asks if John wants to stop and come another way, but John shakes his head and lets Gerald guide him to orgasm with the lift of his hips and his expert hand.

John comes in a blinding rush of sensation. He's never been loud during sex, but he shouts this time. The pleasure is so exquisite it's just this side of painful and it lasts so much longer than any other orgasm he's ever had. His mouth, he's sure, is open in an almost comical expression of ecstasy, but he can't do anything except ride the pulsing beat of his orgasm. He's come with Gerald's fingers or a toy inside of him, but this is more. He doesn't realize he's grinding down on Gerald's cock until the orgasm peters out and he collapses on top of Gerald, gasping like a fish thrown up on shore.

Even after he can speak again, he doesn't. He doesn't want to move. They lie there for a good five minutes. Eventually, Gerald pushes him off with a mumbled  _geroff_ and disposes of the condom. He comes back to bed with a glass of water half full which he hands to John. John downs it all then flops back on the bed on his stomach.

"Do you want me to check?" Gerald asks, pointing at John's arse with the glass.

"No," John mumbles. "S'fine."

Gerald puts the glass on the bedside table and crashes into the bed on his side. He throws an arm over John's shoulders. John turns his face to look at Gerald and they grin at each other.

"Good?" Gerald asks.

" _So_ good," John says.

Later, as they're dozing off and on in post-orgasmic lassitude Gerald says, apropos of nothing, "Will you meet my friends?"

John cracks one eye open and smiles softly. He nods and closes his eyes. He doesn't say anything else and neither does Gerald, but something between them has changed. It won't be until a day later that John can put his finger on what's changed and when he does, it surprises him.

For the first time since Sherlock died, John can see a future without him and that future begins with Gerald.


	6. Texas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The last thing he remembers is evading his FBI handler in New Orleans, finding a little flat to hide away in. Then there might have been some ecstasy and marijuana, possibly cocaine. Lots of cocaine, actually, mixed with ecstasy and marijuana and the occasional forced stop for water and food. A fair number of hangers on (free drugs guarantee you at least a few) maybe a prostitute or two, lots of sex, with and without prostitutes. It's a fog of sustained debauchery._

**March and April 2012**

**Texas**

Sherlock wakes in the backseat of a large SUV. His wrists are handcuffed in front and he's dressed in a pair of track suit bottoms and a t-shirt he doesn't remember owning, or putting on for that matter. There are flip-flops on the floorboard. He blinks and tries to get a look at the person—no, woman—driving the car. She's got ginger hair. She looks in the rear-view mirror, alerted by his movements.

"Ah, you're awake," she says pleasantly. "My name is Elspeth. I'll stop soon and get you some water."

"Where am I?" Sherlock slurs out.

"Well, we're kind of nowhere right now. We're on Texas Highway 46, but that won't mean anything to you. We're just outside San Antonio and we'll reach our destination in approximately thirty-five minutes."

"And what—" Sherlock clears his throat and then licks his lips. "What is our destination, exactly?"

"The house we're renting for the next few months."

"Right," Sherlock says, nodding. "And, uh, why, exactly, did we rent this house for the next few months?"

Elspeth chuckles. "Detox, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh," Sherlock says.

Does he need detox? He can't recall. The last thing he remembers is evading his FBI handler in New Orleans, finding a little flat to hide away in. Then there might have been some ecstasy and marijuana, possibly cocaine. Lots of cocaine, actually, mixed with ecstasy and marijuana and the occasional forced stop for water and food. A fair number of hangers on (free drugs guarantee you at least a few) maybe a prostitute or two, lots of sex, with and without prostitutes. It's a fog of sustained debauchery. He wants to write a sonnet to New Orleans. He loves the city, but it's the site of so much pain.

_(O, blessed New Orleans, she of light and dark_

_Dreaming, I devoured her and she lit me up)_

Sherlock's stomach lurches and he works on taking deep breaths.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Sherlock says, trying not to do exactly that.

"Shit," Elspeth says quietly.

She doesn't sound mad, but Sherlock feels ashamed and disgusted in equal measures. At least it was just cocaine this time, and ecstasy and marijuana are only psychologically addictive, at least for him. Heroin withdrawal is  _so_ much worse in his experience. Drug withdrawal in general sucks, of course, but Sherlock tried to go a bit easy on himself this time. Tried to have  _fun_. He knew better than to try to numb himself with heroin. Heroin is what he used when he wanted to die. Cocaine is what he uses when he wants to live, but can't handle living.

He's never murdered anyone before, and certainly not with his bare hands. The fact that Blaine traded in human slavery doesn't seem to have tempered Sherlock's post-killing trauma. He dreams about Blaine constantly. Nightmares, not dreams. Cocaine seemed ideal initially. Kept him awake and all that. Ecstasy was nice, too. Lots of sex, both genders. (He prefers men, but he likes women as well. He's never felt the need everyone else has to  _label_ themselves, because once you slap it on, you have to carry it around with you forever. World's Only Consulting Detective is about as much label as he's willing to carry).

The SUV slows down and then pulls over to the side of the road. Elspeth comes around the passenger side of the back seat and helps him out. She pulls a key out and unlocks his handcuffs and keeps a firm hand wrapped around his upper arm, steadying him.

He looks her over and his nausea is temporarily eased by the information flowing off of Elspeth and into Sherlock's brain where it's sorted and categorized. First the basics: she's about five feet eight inches, ginger hair, plump but muscled (she'd  _have_ to be to wrestle him into cuffs) and she's absolutely  _covered_ in freckles. Her eyes are pale blue. She's wearing khaki shorts and an old t-shirt that says “Gruene, Texas.”

"It's a fucking furnace out here," Sherlock chokes out.

"Texas," Elspeth says, as though that explains everything.

Sherlock continues to process Elspeth's information. She's a bounty hunter (of course), unmarried, left-handed.

_(Oh, John, how I miss you)_

There's no other readily available information except for the stuff that he doesn't care about. What she ate for lunch today. Her earrings. Her watch. Her shorts and trainers aren't cheap, but they're practical.  _She's_ practical.

She's unusually kind. For a bounty hunter. For anyone, really, that Sherlock has encountered since he fell off the roof of St. Bart's. She holds him while he vomits so that he doesn't pitch forward into the scrub ( _she's so strong_ ). She helps him down to the edge of the gravel road when he's done so he can sit with his head hanging, wrists resting on drawn up knees. She fetches some wipes, mouthwash, a bottle of cold water.

When he can move again without vomiting, she puts him in the front seat this time, buckles him in.

_(Not just kind—caretaker. Prepared. Wipes, mouthwash, water bottle. Buckles me in. Sooths me. Patient.)_

"You're a mother," he says.

"I'm not—" she says, and then stops.

"Oh," Sherlock says, realizing. Then, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"No, no, you're fine. I was only sixteen and I didn't—I wasn't a very good mother. She was taken away."

"Oh, thank God," Sherlock says. When Elspeth cocks an eyebrow at him, he hastens to add, "I thought at first that your child must've died. I'm just glad she's, you know. Alive."

To his surprise Elspeth chuckles softly and then shuts his door, almost gently. He realizes she's trying to minimize the noise for his over-sensitive ears. She gets into the driver's side and puts on the blinker, checks the mirrors before pulling back onto the road. Careful driver. Safe.

"I'm glad she's alive, too," she says.

"You didn't handcuff me," he points out.

"Do I need to?"

He smiles, but says nothing.

Soon, they're cruising along at sixty miles an hour. There's very little traffic back and forth, just the swell and curve of land spread out before him covered in blue sky so bright it hurts to look at. He's never seen sky like this. In the distance are a grey jumble of clouds that suggest rain.

There's trees in the distance, scrubby ones he can't identify and then bigger ones with tiny leaves that he also can't identify. Everything is a shade of brown and olive green, from the faintest golden beige to dark, succulent green.

"A camouflage world," Sherlock muses.

"Hm," Elspeth says, sounding pleased.

Sherlock looks at her and sees a reflection of himself: lonely, full of longing for someone far away.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

She smiles, but says nothing. Sherlock feels safe next to a lonely woman whose skin is mapped with freckles, the two of them hidden inside the camouflage world.

~*~

The house is set back from the road at least a quarter mile and the drive from the main road to the house is unpaved. Several times, Sherlock thinks about begging to be let out to walk. Elspeth navigates it carefully, but he has to stop once with the dry heaves.

The house is large, with a courtyard and "breezeway" as Elspeth calls it. It's a screened in porch with a small bar with two stools, a sturdy patio table with two chairs, and a TV mounted on the wall. It makes an impression on Sherlock because it connects the garage to the rest of the house and is pretty much all of what he sees of the house for the first week.

The breezeway leads into the laundry room, after that a small hallway that leads to a bedroom with  _en suite_.

He doesn't make it further than that into the house for a week.

~*~

**April 2012**

**Texas**

"What are you writing?" Elspeth asks. She's lying on her stomach and the sheet has slipped down to her waist.

"A sonnet," Sherlock says.

"A  _sonnet_? Seriously?" she asks, lifting up to look at the paper he has spread flat on a photo book of Texas desert animals. Her heavy, freckled breasts catch his eye. His prick twitches in interest.

"Yep," he says, pulling his eyes away. "A sonnet."

"To me?" she asks with a coy arch of her eyebrow.

"Hardly," Sherlock says and leans close to kiss her so she knows he's teasing.

One kiss turns into two turns into three turns into Sherlock's fingers and lips sketching lines connecting one freckle to another on Elspeth's shoulders.

"I could spend a thousand years mapping your freckles and never map them all," he says. "It's like your skin is covered in tiny ginger stars."

"Oh, my," she murmurs. "You do have a way with words, Mr. Holmes."

"Mm," he says, his lips trailing lower.

He wonders, idly, if Mycroft sent Elspeth because he knew this would happen—Sherlock and Elspeth in bed. Sherlock  _healing_ with Elspeth because she was a bad mother and lost her child, then worked in a rehab clinic, learning to be a good mother before becoming a woman who hunts people down. He's probably giving Mycroft too much credit. He certainly couldn't have predicted Sherlock would sleep with her.

Her coarse ginger hair tickles his nose when he turns her gently onto her side and lines himself up behind her. He presses his lips against her neck and she pokes him in the eye with the condom packet when she hands it to him over her shoulder without looking. They laugh and, for a moment, it's not sex but something better, something a lot like friendship.

He needs a friend.

"Thank you," he murmurs against the map of ginger stars.

"For poking you in the eye?" she chuckles.

"For holding me while I vomited and cried and cleaning up my shit and sitting with me after nightmares and still letting me seduce you."

"Oh, you thought  _you_ were seducing  _me_?" she asks softly.

"You saucy tart," he huffs, nuzzling into her neck.

"I think we seduced each other," she points out.

"Probably," he agrees.

In another week, Sherlock will have to move on. They won't see each other again.


	7. Sonnet

> To New Orleans
> 
> by Sherlock Holmes

_O, blessed New Orleans, she of light and dark_

_Dreaming, I devoured her and she lit me up_

_In shadow and in pain she held me, soothed_

_All the fear and darkness she consumed and_

_Together, we spun black and grey, blinding white_

_Until I fell, broken, and in darkness_

_She left me until I surrendered myself_

_And, in turn, left her behind so I might_

_Heal from her love, that clings and shatters though_

_She might try to staunch the flow of blood, for which_

_She, screaming in laughter and sorrow, revels_

_In what she has wrought inside me, pain and_

_Nightmares of what was never love, but only_

_Loss of the kind I already knew, before_


	8. Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What if you were my sub and I told you not to move or I wouldn't let you come, and then I started licking your nipples or nipping at the insides of your thighs?"_
> 
> _"I'd say that was very unfair."_
> 
> _"And, as your Dom, I'd say, you can disobey, but you'll be having a lonely wank in the bathroom."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a kink negotiation and impact play, but is not meant as anything other than hot sex. Gerald is a professional disciplinarian, but he and John do not have a D/s relationship. Don't nag me about safewords either. This is a relationship, not a BDSM club.

* * *

**May 2012**

Gerald and John are sitting on the sofa in Gerald's sitting room watching the telly. Gerald has curled himself up into an approximation of a very large cat and is using John's lap in which to do it. Gerald has no shirt on and John's fingers are sliding absentmindedly through the dark hair on his chest before they find the hair on his head again. John doesn't realize he's doing it until Gerald brings up the hair kink question again.

"I suppose, yes. I love hair. I like touching it. Don't you?"

"Not as such, no."

"Then what's your kink?"

"Being a sub. Or Dom. Because I Dom in my professional life, I like to sub, but I'm a switch."

"What's a switch?"

"It means I'm comfortable in either role. At heart, Dominance and submission is about a transference of power and I'm equally comfortable having it or giving it up."

"I quite prefer being equals."

"Mm," Gerald says, curling tighter.

"You know, you can't actually fit your entire body into my lap."

"You can't stop me from trying," Gerald says and John laughs.

"Maybe if you showed me," John says.

"Showed you what?" Gerald murmurs, his fingertips sneaking towards John's fly.

"How to be a sub."

Gerald freezes and then lifts his head and stares at John.

"You would do that?"

"Um, yeah. I mean, we get to talk about it first, though, right?" John asks. Gerald is silent, staring at John with narrowed eyes so John adds, "Your eyes are kind of scary right now. Say something."

"Sorry, I'm just doing a mental inventory of all the things I have in stock."

"What stock?"

"Upstairs," Gerald says, sitting upright and ignoring John's fly, which makes John wish he'd kept his mouth shut.

"Upstairs?"

"In the therapy room."

"Oh, no, you are not taking me into the scary room."

"Why do you call it that?" Gerald says, laughing despite his irritation. "They don't go in there to be  _scared_ into behaving. The words safe, sane, and consensual come to mind."

"I'm not one of your clients. I don't need to have the idiocy beat out of me."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Gerald says, his eyes flashing with anger. "Maybe you just need to have your  _narrow_   _mind_  beat out of you."

Gerald stands up, the movement jerky, his muscles tight, and goes the long way around it to the sitting room door so he doesn't have to ask John to move his legs off the coffee table.

John sits there, blinking. He's totally missed something and he has no idea what it is. He goes back over the conversation in his head.  _Ah_ , he thinks.

He finds Gerald in his office, leaning up against his filing cabinet and staring at his hands. John knocks on the doorframe.

When Gerald looks up, John is stunned by what he sees on Gerald's face. Gerald looks devastated, near tears.

“I'm sorry, Gerald. I'm a bastard,” John says. He crosses the short distance between them and tries to put his arms around Gerald but his attempt is rebuffed. Instead Gerald sidesteps him and walks over to his desk. He presses all five fingertips against the top of his desk. He keeps his eyes on them and his figure is so rigid that John doesn't dare approach.

"What I do isn't a joke, John."

"I know that—"

"Do you? What I do is valid. I help people—"

"I never said you didn't, Gerald."

"No, you just think it's a kink or—"

"Of course, I bloody think it's a kink! It  _is_ a kink! They come to you to be spanked or whipped or—"

"Is that what you think? That they're up there getting off on it and I'm only fooling myself that I'm actually helping them?"

John says nothing, but he doesn't have to. He winces when he sees the shutter go down on Gerald's face. John wants to apologize, wants to walk over to Gerald and say or do whatever it takes to stop Gerald looking so guarded, so carefully  _neutral_. But he knows better.

"I think you should go home," Gerald says.

John doesn't even realize he was holding his breath until it all comes out of him in a rush and he gives in to his urge to comfort Gerald, but Gerald holds up his hand, refusing to meet John's gaze.

"Tell me, then," John says, keeping well back. "Explain it to me so I understand."

For a moment, Gerald's face crumples, but he turns his face back to the desk, where his hand is resting. He smooths it over the desk, like he's sweeping up invisible crumbs and then his hand stills. He looks up.

"My clients set goals and keep track of them in a journal. If they've failed to reach their goal when they come in for a session, then I punish them. The punishment is negotiated between us for maximum effectiveness. What I do is behavior modification pure and simple."

Gerald stops, but still refuses to look at John. He just keeps swirling the tips of his fingers back and forth over the desk's surface and John watches, wishing he was the desk.

"And, just so you know, since it seems to be the sticking point with you—only about a third of my clients use physical punishment because, yeah, the other two thirds get off on it. Like I said, behavior modification."

"How do you know what works?"

"I have a list. Wanna see it?"

"Okay," John says carefully.

John can't tell if Gerald's good-naturedness is back or if he just  _sounds_ that way because really, he wants to smack John in the face. Gerald seems to be moving more loosely so he's less guarded than before. He plucks a folder off his desk and hands it to John who opens it. 

 

 

> **Lists of Accepted Punishments**
> 
> *According to contract, I will not use any implements brought from your home. You must pick from this list!
> 
> **see attached sheet for list of restraints
> 
> Impact punishment (with or without restraints)
> 
> Flogging: leather, with or without leather beads or wood beads
> 
> Paddling: leather, wood, acrylic
> 
> Caning: leather and acrylic (riding crop also available)
> 
> Physical discomfort (5 to 30 minutes)
> 
> *I do NOT use heat or burning for punishment!
> 
> Cold discomfort (example: 20 min cold shower)
> 
> Tactile discomfort (example: kneeling in dried peas)
> 
> Aural discomfort (example: listening to annoying sound for twenty minutes or loud sound for five)
> 
> Stress discomfort—either bound or unbound (ex. holding something heavy on outstretched hand for twenty minutes)
> 
> Humiliation: Determined on a case by case basis only if other methods are unsuccessful.
> 
> *REMEMBER: Be honest in your journal! Behavior modification doesn’t work if you lie about achieving your goals. I get paid either way. 

John lowers the paper into the folder and looks at Gerald, who's watching him with an uncertain look on his face.

"Why dried peas?" John asks, his forehead furrowed.

Gerald's face clears, the sun comes out, and then he doubles over in laughter. John chuckles a little bit, because he can't help himself—when Gerald laughs, he makes John want to laugh, too. He repeats his question.

"I mean I get most of them, but why dried peas?"

"I can take you upstairs and show you if you'd like," Gerald says, still laughing.

"No, I'm just—so, they really...they  _don't_ like it," John says, understanding dawning.

"You were in the army, so I thought you understood Dom/sub dynamics. I mean, that's all the bloody army is—one person giving the orders and another person either following the orders or  _not_ following the orders and getting punished."

"Yeah, I guess...I just—this brings up another question. You said you liked being a sub. Does this mean you want to be punished for things?"

"First of all, I only do Dom/sub during sex. No, I don't like being punished. What I  _like_ is not having to  _think_. I just do what my Dom says. All the worry and responsibility is on someone else's shoulders."

"But, then it's not  _punishment_ , is it? I mean, if you're getting off?"

He doesn't know when Gerald moved closer to him even though he's staring right at him, and then Gerald is right in front of him. He smiles gently, which is why John doesn't fight back when Gerald puts one hand behind his neck and the other on his arm and spins him around and presses him roughly against the filing cabinet behind them. John grunts at the impact.

"What if you were my sub and I told you not to move  _or_ I wouldn't let you come, and  _then_ I started licking your nipples or nipping at the insides of your thighs?"

"I'd say that was very unfair."

"And, as your Dom, I'd say, you can disobey, but you'll be having a lonely wank in the bathroom. Punishment."

"Oh," John breathes, the word elongating as it leaves his mouth.

"I think you're starting to understand."

Gerald presses his body against John's, but other than that, he's done nothing at all arousing—they're not kissing, he's not grinding his pelvis into John's backside, he's not whispering filthy things in John's ear. Yet, John is aroused.

"Do you want to play, John?" Gerald asks.

"I don't get off on spanking or anything like that," John mutters, but his dick is saying  _god, yes, please, whatever you think you want to do to me is what I want you to do to me, too._

"Give me ten minutes in the therapy room and let's see if I can't change your mind."

~*~

The therapy room looks nothing like he'd expected. John stops right inside the door and gapes openly. There's no metal cages clanking on chains hung from the ceiling. The paddles, canes, riding crops and floggers are discreetly tucked away in a closet, which is well lit and has professionally constructed hooks for holding them. There's not a bed in the middle of the room draped in crimson silk. In fact, the room looks a lot like a combination of gymnasium and classroom.

On one wall, there's a waist-high padded bench. There are metal rings bolted into the floor in front of it. It looks like the parallel bars gymnasts use, but there's two rings on the top instead of one. On one wall is a black metal wheel; it looks kind of like a poorly made mandala. There are metal rings bolted all over that one at different heights and different widths. It's clear it's used to restrain someone while whipping (caning, paddling, flogging) them.

"What's the mirror for?"

The full-length mirror on the wall to the left is set in an ornate frame. It's the type of mirror found in the boudoir of a wealthy woman and it's the only thing in there that doesn't look entirely utilitarian.

“Humiliation punishments.”

"And that sandbox thing over there?"

"Ah," Gerald says and nudges John aside. He turns around and gives John a wink. "You asked about the dried peas? Why don't you have a go. Let's see how long you can kneel without it starting to hurt."

Gerald gestures at the sandbox— _peabox_? God, that makes it sound like something cats go in. But John's game so he goes to the box, steps over the edge and sees that it's filled with dried green lentils. He gets down on his knees and immediately mumbles at the discomfort. He looks up at Gerald, who's looking down at him with undisguised lust and is also holding a stopwatch.

"Hey, I didn't agree to be your sub," John points out. "And this is really uncomfortable."

"That's the point, John. Behav—"

"Yeah, behavior modification. Got it. Thanks. Are you really going to time me?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Fine. So, if I agree to be your sub, are you gonna, you know, spank me?"

"I said give me ten minutes. Kneeling in the bean bin isn't going to count towards those ten minutes, just so you know."

"The  _bean bin_?" John asks. Then, he can't help himself, he starts giggling. Gerald glares at him, but it's a fairly good-natured glare, as far as glares go. "I'm sorry, darling, it's just—I get it, I do. But you can allow me a laugh now and again? It's effective punishment. I'm getting very uncomfortable."

"Are you getting out, then?"

"How long have I been doing it?"

"Two minutes."

"No sodding way! Show it to me!"

Gerald turns the stopwatch around and the digital readout says 02:21.

"How long do you make them do it?"

"Twenty minutes usually.”

“Jesus!”

“Unlike you, they don't have denim to protect their knees. They wear a shift, kind of like a hospital gown,” Gerald says. When John opens his mouth, Gerald rushes to say, “Yes, they wear their pants—I knew you would ask that question first. Jesus, John. All you think about is sex."

He doesn't sound too upset about it.

"Well...yeah. Look at you! How can I not when you're always walking around in only your boxers and your hair all crazy, looking like you just got tumbled around a bed. Makes me want to tumble you around a bed."

"Mm," Gerald says, unimpressed. "Three minutes."

" _Ugh_. I give up," John says and pushes to his feet, brushing peas off his jeans.

"Wimp," Gerald says.

"Hey, I didn't come here to be punished."

Gerald sidles close and presses himself up against John.

"I know exactly what you came here for and I ask you again—do you want to play? We're not going to be doing anything extreme and we're certainly not doing it in here. I have things for my personal use. If you say stop, I'll stop and ask you to tell me red, yellow, or green, like we discussed.

"But, just so you know, John. If you say  _yes_ right now, I'll be your Dom for the rest of the night and there's no guarantee there'll be an orgasm for you at the end of it."

"You make it sound so ominous," John says, leaning close to tease a kiss from Gerald, who doesn't take the bait. "Fine. What do you mean by _the rest of the night_ and  _no orgasm_. Do you mean for as long as it's dark outside, or—"

"Until midnight and you only come if you obey. Do you want to play?"

"Yes."

John doesn't even hesitate and Gerald's face breaks out into a grin to rival toothpaste ads everywhere. John reaches out for him and Gerald frowns and holds his hands up.

"No. You do nothing unless I tell you. Go to my room, take your clothes off, sit on the edge of the bed and wait for me, eyes on the floor."

"Please don't make me call you  _master_ or  _sir_ ," John groans.

"Don't be silly," Gerald says with a little smirk. "It doesn't matter what you call me—they'll all sound the same when you're begging. Now hurry up!"

Gerald smacks him on the arse to get him going.

"One question, though. Why do I have to wait for you?"

"Because, John. I  _told_ you to. That's all you need to know."

"I don't—"

"Ah ah! You agreed, John. Do you want to stop? We can stop if you tell me to."

"But then I'll have to have a lonely wank in the bathroom," John intones.

"That's right," Gerald says, and his very smugness is fueling John's arousal.

John says nothing. He turns, walks out of the room and goes to the bedroom to wait.

~*~

Gerald makes him wait fifteen minutes and by the time he comes in, John has moved from sitting on the bed to lounging half on and half off it. When he hears the door open, he snaps back to sitting like Gerald told him to and berates himself for how easily he slips into the role of submissive. He's not  _afraid_ of Gerald, and he can go one night without an orgasm  _or_ a wank (lonely or not). And yet...here is, sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, his eyes lowered.

The urge to look at Gerald and see what he's brought into the bedroom with him is overwhelming, but this isn't just about getting off, he realizes. Gerald knows something about John, that same thing that Sherlock knew, right off—John wants to have his boundaries pushed; he wants to test his limits and then go just that bit past them.

Besides, this feels like a competition. If he fails, Gerald wins. If he doesn't fail, well...they both win. Orgasms all 'round!

"John, please get down on your knees." Gerald's voice is calm and polite, not demanding.

John slides to his knees next to the bed, keeping his head tilted down so he's not tempted to peek. Gerald comes to stand next to him and John can feel the dip in the bed as Gerald sits down. Then Gerald drops what he's carrying on the floor, startling John, who flinches away. Gerald's fingers are immediately in his hair, petting him, soothing him, but John's staring at what Gerald dropped. There's three things and they're all leather—one is clearly the flogger. It's got a handle wrapped with a braided design. It looks like the head of a mop, except with a handle. Then there's what John guesses is a paddle, but it's leather, not wood. The handle is a lot like the flogger and, as John looks closer, he realizes they all have the same braided pattern on their handles.  _A matching set_ , John thinks and almost giggles. The other thing is leather, too, but long and thin. It must be a cane.

"You're curious, John," Gerald says, still brushing his fingers through John's hair. His voice has taken on a deeper, hypnotic quality. "You want to know what I'm going to do with them. Would you like me to tell you?"

"Yes," John says and automatically lifts his head to look at Gerald the way he would in any other conversation, but Gerald's fingers move from trailing gently through John's hair to gripping the back of his neck and keeping his head down.

"Eyes down, John, or I'll have to blindfold you. You don't want me to do that, do you?"

The way he speaks is gentle, but firm and yet he may as well have been stroking John's dick, which is rock hard and starting to leak.  _Does_ he want to be blindfolded? No, he doesn't. He keeps his eyes down.

"Very good, John," Gerald says and goes back to petting John's head.

Gerald gets up and John sits back on his heels. John can't see above Gerald's shins unless he raises his head and he's not going to raise his head because he, John Watson, is in control.

"Lie face down on the bed. Move towards the other side until just the tips of your toes reach the floor. Now, turn your face to the foot of the bed," Gerald says, his voice a little more clipped than it was. "Stretch your arms out towards the other side of the bed as far as you can. Perfect, John.”

Gerald walks around to the other side of the bed. John can hear Gerald pulling something heavy out from under the bed. A box is opened and John hears the thud of something small, but heavy, and the clink of a chain—much heavier than a chain you'd wear around your neck, but still very fine. It makes a tinkling noise. Then a cuff is fastened around John's left wrist, there’s a tug, and the delicate clink of the chain—John can't see, only feel—and then another cuff around his right wrist, the sound of the chain, the tug of it going through a ring on the cuff and then his wrists are pulled down towards the floor and attached to something.

John is now stretched out on the bed. He tests the cuffs to find very little give. He can't push himself up using his arms, and on the other side, his feet are barely touching the floor, which means he can't push himself up by his feet. He's being offered up with no easy way to get loose. He struggles for a bit just to test his restraints and then relaxes into the bed. There's nothing painful about the position he's in, though his body will eventually start complaining if he's not allowed to move. John learned the fine art of hurrying up to wait in the army so he closes his eyes, relaxes his shoulders and his hips, takes a deep breath, lets it out. And waits.

"I'm going to use the cane on you first. I'll only stripe your arse and then I'll stop. When I do, I want you to say red, yellow, or green like we discussed, remember?"

"Yes," John says, his voice partially muffled by the duvet.

Gerald doesn't warn him, but John hears the whistling of the cane through the air and then a bright hot line of pain erupts across both his butt cheeks. He shouts into the bed.

"Red, yellow, or green?"

"Yellow," John gasps.

"Let's save that for another time, then. The paddle is next. It's flat and fairly thin so it'll smart rather than bruise. Ready?"

The question is, apparently, a rhetorical one because it lands on his arse while he's still opening his mouth to say  _yes_. This pain is different, more diffuse, and  _smarts_ is an understatement. It bloody fucking hurts, but instead of a shout of pain, what comes out of John is more like a grunt that tapers off into a moan.

"Oh, you like that one," Gerald says, his voice dripping with gratification.

~*~

Thirty minutes later, John has a mind-numbing orgasm that leaves him shivering so hard, the bed rattles. Gerald gathers him up in his arms and John is suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. To his embarrassment, tears squeeze out of his eyes. He looks up at Gerald in betrayal. What devilry has he wrought?

"It's normal, John. Release of endorphins, oxytocin, all that stuff. Makes you feel warm and cuddly, emotionally open, all the stuff men are not supposed to be. The orgasm was good, though, yeah?"

The orgasm wasn't  _good_. The orgasm was like a supernova, a choir of angels, the earth moving beneath his feet. But all John can manage is a sort of moaning, grunting,  _purr_ and Gerald chuckles smugly.

"You're a perfect sub," Gerald says, wrapping himself around John like the bloody great cuddler he is.

"How embarrassing," John mumbles.

"What, being a sub?" Gerald asks, his forehead crinkling in concern.

"It's very unmanly," John mutters and then finds himself tucking his face into Gerald's neck.

"Oh, darling," Gerald murmurs. "It's the manly ones who need to sub. I'm not asking you to sub 24/7. I have no intentions of hijacking your autonomy. My only desire in being your Dom is to help you learn about yourself. And also, the orgasms are spectacular."

John grins against the skin of Gerald's neck, Gerald's hair falling over his head like a curtain as he kisses John's head.


	9. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grief, Gerald says, is like a broken glass. You can glue the pieces back together and it will still hold water, but a tiny bit will always seep through the cracks._
> 
> _John says that's the most horrible thing he's ever heard, and if Gerald was trying to comfort him, he's doing a shit job. Gerald laughs and laughs._

**September 2011**

John carries a little brown notebook around with him at all times. It's small enough to fit into his pocket. He uses it to take notes on cases. Nine hours after Sherlock kills himself, John's sitting in his chair, staring at nothing. He's just woken up from his wank in Sherlock's bed. He picks the notebook up and begins to write.

 

_September 15, 2011_

_I would have stepped off the roof with you, if you'd asked. I would've done anything for you, if you'd asked. Why did you leave me? Why did I let you leave?_

 

_September 21, 2011_

_Today was your funeral. I wish you could have been there. So many people love you. Did you think we didn't? Is that why you jumped? Poor Molly. She has to go to work every day knowing that you were on the top of her building and she could have stopped you if she'd known. Maybe I should've got off the phone with you and dialed Molly._

_But I didn't think you were really going to jump. I still believed in you right to the bloody end._

_September 24, 2011_

_Mycroft came by today and said he wants to keep paying rent on the flat for as long as I want to stay. A suspiciously large amount of money was deposited in my bank account today as well. I swear. Fucking Mycroft. Can't say I'm displeased, though. Now I don't have your card to hand all the time, it helps to have some extra money. Though I spend a lot of it on going down the pub. Probably not the wisest use of my time or money. Don't really give a fuck, though._

 

_September 27, 2011_

_Mrs. Hudson and I went to your grave today. I asked you to stop being dead. I told your gravestone all the things I should've told you when you were alive. If I'd told you, would you still have jumped? The thing is, I thought I really knew you. Like, in a way nobody else knows you. I thought I was special. In the end, though, I wasn't. I was just another person you couldn't be honest with._

_September 29, 2011_

_I don't know why I'm writing this shit._

~*~

**September 2012**

As soon as September rolls around, John falls into little pockets of sadness at random times of the day. The closer he gets to the fifteenth, the sharper the sadness gets. After the twelfth, he spends every night at Gerald's. He's not trying to escape his own flat, the home he and Sherlock had together. It's just that he feels so emotionally fragile. He can't stand to be alone. When they're at Gerald's flat, John stays curled up around him, like Gerald can protect him from the looming anniversary date.

~*~

_October 1, 2011_

_I should've told you. God, Sherlock. I feel like I'm drowning. I can't sleep in my own bed. I can't sleep at all. I see you everywhere and when I close my eyes, you're dead._

_October 4, 2011_

_~~I will never fucking forgive you for doing this to me. If there's a heaven or a hell, I'm going there and I'm going to kill you. No, I'm going to kiss you and fuck you and then I'm going to kill you, you selfish fucking piece of shit.~~ _

_I don't mean it. God, I love you. I am so fucking in love with you and I never told you and it hurts, Sherlock. I can't breathe. I'll be looking down some little kid's throat, checking their tonsils and all of a sudden, I'll remember that you aren't alive anymore and I'll find myself gasping for breath._

_And at night. God, at night's the worst, I think. I wake up, gasping for breath and reaching out for you as though my subconscious expects you to be in bed. That's fucked up because why should I reach for you when I wake up at night when you were never there in the first place?_

_I'm always reaching for you and I want you to reach back. But you don't._

 

_October 24, 2011_

_Mycroft and I had tea today. He told me he knows I was in love with you. He said you knew you were loved. Did you? I told him it sure doesn't feel like you knew you were loved. It feels like you thought you were a failure. And see, that's the thing, Sherlock. I know you're not a failure or a fake or a fraud ~~or any other F-words except Fucker and Fucking Cocksucker and Fucking Arsehole for fucking leaving me.~~ I tried to tell you on the phone that day. Why didn't you listen? It's a magic trick, you said. As though anything you ever did wasn't based on cold, hard evidence._

_I love you so much and I miss you so much and I'm afraid I'll never be okay again._

_October 29, 2011_

_I'm tired. I keep going, though. You know why? Because people depend on me. Do you see how that works, Sherlock? I can't just go jumping off fucking buildings because there are people who need me. There were people who needed you, Sherlock, people who depended on you. I needed you. I still need you.  ~~I hate you so much~~  and I forgot what your laugh sounds like and your clothes don't smell like you anymore and I lie in your bed every night and think about dying so I list the people who would be upset if I died. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Stamford. Sarah. Mycroft, haha. Yeah, believe it or not. Mycroft and I have tea once a month. He says he's always been "fond" of me and that I am a "link" to you. Whatever the fuck that means. I think what he's really saying is we can be miserable together because we both loved you. No, not loved. We both LOVE you. Still._

_Not just still. Always. I will never stop loving you._

 

_Christmas 2011_

_I will never stop paying the price for loving you._

 

_January 19, 2012_

_The new year brought more of the same. Get up, shower. Work. Come home. Try to eat something. Go to the pub with Lestrade or Stamford. Home. Sunday supper with Mrs. Hudson. Rinse and repeat._

_It's not as hard now, though. At first, all I wanted was for the grief to GO AWAY because it hurt so fucking much. And it still does. I still think about you every day, but it's not all day.  ~~At first, when you died~~  You didn't die, Sherlock, like from some disease or something. You willingly jumped off a fucking building. You chose to leave me behind.  ~~You selfish bastard. I'll never forgive you~~._

_The first month all I did was cry. Got dehydrated I cried so much. Sometimes I do that thing where I'll go, "Oh, I can't wait to tell Sherlock when I get home," and then I'll remember that there is no Sherlock. Then I fucking cry, which is ridiculous because it's been four fucking months._

_It's so fucking frustrating, you know, being the "widower" but being treated like just the flatmate of that bloke who died. I feel like the spouse you left behind, but everyone else just moved on. I can't seem to move on, but at least it doesn't eat me alive anymore. I think that scares me more than grieving for the rest of my life, the idea that I could ever not love you like this._

 

_March 11, 2012_

_I don't know how to tell you this, but I met someone yesterday. I think it's time for me to stop writing to you. His name is Gerald. Yes! it's a him! Oh, my God, John Watson is BISEXUAL. God, you would be having a field day, wouldn't you?_

~*~

Grief, Gerald says, is like a broken glass. You can glue the pieces back together and it will still hold water, but a tiny bit will always seep through the cracks.

John says that's the most horrible thing he's ever heard, and if Gerald was trying to comfort him, he's doing a shit job. Gerald laughs and laughs.

On September fifteenth, exactly one year after Sherlock's suicide, Gerald goes with him to the cemetery. John carries a smallish metal bowl and the notebook as well as a box of matches. John's plan is to burn the notebook and then scatter the ashes on Sherlock's grave, but the day is windy and even using their bodies to block the wind, the matches keep going out.

Finally, they have to squat down and form a hunched windbreak with their bodies to get the matches to light. After several attempts, they get the edge of the little notebook smoldering, but it goes out before the flame can spread. They laugh, their lips chapped from the sudden cold, dry weather in the last couple of days.

"Maybe we should've burned it before we left the flat," Gerald suggests.

"I think you're right. Symbolism trumped by practicality."

"We can burn it back at the flat and put the ashes in a baggie and then we can come back," Gerald offers. "Or you could just keep the notebook."

John stuffs the bowl, notebook and matchbox in his coat pockets, pushes himself up and holds a hand out for Gerald. John pulls him into a bruising hug. He buries his face in Gerald's neck.

"I love you," John says fiercely into the skin under Gerald's jaw. "If Sherlock knew I was telling you I love you while standing on his grave, he would have a fit."

"I love you, too," Gerald says. "You don't think he'd be pleased you were happy? I mean, you are, right? Happy, that is?"

"I am  _very_  happy, and no, he wouldn't be pleased about it. He would expect me to spend the rest of my life in widow's weeds grieving his loss. For a man who said he didn't care about romantic entanglements, he was an incredibly possessive and jealous bastard."

"He loved you," Gerald says.

He tries to cup John's face with his hands for a kiss, but his hands are cold and John smacks them away with a yelp. Gerald flinches and then stumbles on the uneven ground, bangs his knee into the solid marble gravestone, grunts in pain, bends over to look at his knee and falls on his face.

John shrieks with laughter.

"You bastard!" Gerald laughs. "Your possessive ex-boyfriend is getting his revenge and you're laughing at me?"

"Even beyond the grave, Sherlock causes trouble," John says affectionately.

They're howling with laughter while John tries to get Gerald to his feet. They attract the disapproving glare of a man with two teenage girls. Feeling guilty (but not really) for laughing in a graveyard (which is like laughing at crime scenes), John helps Gerald to his feet.

There's a pavilion on the grounds and John guides them there, but they go slowly because Gerald's knee hurts when he puts weight on it. Under the pavilion, the benches are laid out like in a church, although there's no altar. John has Gerald sit down with his leg stretched out on the bench. He crouches next to Gerald's leg and pushes Gerald's trouser leg up to see his knee.

"My goodness, you bruised it pretty badly. That's quite swollen," John says. "Let's get you home and get some ice on it."

Gerald leans close and murmurs, "This is a shame. I was planning to get on my knees and suck your cock when we get home."

John's eyes go wide and his mouth drops open slightly before he snaps it shut.

"Do not give me an erection in a cemetery, Gerald," John says.

Then he ignores his own directive by leaning over ever so slightly and nuzzling against the crotch of Gerald's trousers. Gerald's back shields them from anyone who might see unless they were to come around the front. He licks a line up the fly of Gerald's trousers.

"You're insatiable," Gerald says, shaking his head like he's disappointed. "Let's get home so you can suck my cock instead."

"C'mon, then, gimp," John says, helping him up. He lets Gerald use him as a crutch as they walk to the tube station.

~*~

_May 26, 2012_

_I talked to Gerald about maybe looking for a job in an A &E. He says his friend Rebecca works at the RLH. She's a doctor, too. He never said before, but when I asked him, he said he didn't want to be chatting about his friends all the time and making me feel lonely. I laughed when he told me that.  ~~He looked so cute, all sheepish, trying to take care of me. He's so fucking sexy and yet he can be so adorable and sweet. He is so hot. The sex is incredible. I've never had sex this good in my life. Sweet Jesus. Probably because of the prostate thing.~~_

~*~

At Gerald's flat, John helps Gerald into the sitting room, removes his trousers, and makes an icepack for his knee. He hands out two paracetamols with a glass of water and then gets on his knees and delivers the promised blowjob. Gerald declares John's technique for giving head a cure for his banged-up knee. Then John orders Thai and they watch telly, curled up together on the couch. John changes his icepack out a few times until the swelling goes down. John takes Gerald to bed, opens him up with his steady and gentle doctor's fingers. John turns them on their sides so Gerald doesn't have to bend his knee. As he pushes into Gerald's body, he says  _I love you_. Gerald's fingers dig into John's arse cheek and then grip his thigh, pulling him closer. One of John's arms circles Gerald's chest from under his body and the other is curved over Gerald's hip so John can wrap his hand around Gerald's dripping prick.

After John comes, he takes Gerald in his mouth for the second time that day. He slips two fingers inside Gerald, whose hole is slippery with John's semen, and feathers the tip of his middle finger over Gerald's prostate. Gerald comes with a shout, his body almost bending in half with the force of his orgasm. His nerves are alight even after his orgasm is over and he shivers while John holds him close. John kisses his cheeks and his forehead and his eyes. He tells him again.  _I love you._

~*~

_May 14, 2012_

_I had sex with Gerald the other day. Like, you know, where he was inside me. God, that's hard to write. I really thought you would be the first man to...there's not a good word. I thought you would be the first man to put his cock up my arse? Yeah, whatever the romantic phrase for that is. That's what I thought. And you weren't. He was. And you know what? Not once that day did I think about you. That was two days ago and I only remembered you today and I panicked a bit, you know? Because I realized yesterday that I want this with him. I want a future with him. I like him so much. I don't have to be careful how I touch him, like I did with a woman. He's funny. He knows all about wines. He's good with money. He can work a chip and pin machine without having to verbally abuse it. I love the way his lips feel. I gave him a split lip when I had a nightmare and he forgave me. His arms are really strong, like ridiculously strong. Cause, like I said, he beats three or four people a day, haha! Anyway, yeah, his arms are...and his hands, his fingers. God, he can do amazing things with his fingers._

_Okay, I know, you don't want to hear that. It's just that I have a little crush, I guess._

_He has friends, like real ones. He wants me to meet them and I'm going to and maybe they'll become my friends._

 

_June 2, 2012_

_I met Gerald's friends Cyril and Rebecca last night. They all went to Oxford together. Apparently, I have a thing for men from the upper class. Haha. They call Cyril "Cynical Cyril" because he doesn't believe in true love. Then he told me, "I do believe in true love for other people. I just don't think anyone will ever love me like that."_

_That made me sad, to hear it and I said, "That sounds like something my friend Sherlock would say."_

_As soon as it was out of my mouth, I wanted to take it back. I didn't want to talk about you last night because I was enjoying myself. For the first time since you killed yourself, I can see a future without you._

_I love you Sherlock, but if you're alive, I beg you...please don't come back. Let me have my life._

John stops writing after that. There's only one page left anyway. John likes the symbolism. One page on which to write the rest of his life.

~*~

**September 16, 2012**

The next day, back at his own flat, John takes the bowl and matches out and lights the notebook on fire. He watches it while it burns, more to keep a watch in case it sets anything else on fire, but as the flames consume the little book, John finds himself teary-eyed, then openly crying, then, finally, he slides to the kitchen floor and sobs so hard his stomach muscles are sore the next day.

After there's only a pile of ashes and bits of paper left, John puts the bowl in the fridge so the ashes can cool. He puts the kettle on, then goes into the bathroom and cleans his face. He makes a cup of tea and drinks it while reading the paper. He has a second cup of tea. After an hour, he checks that the ashes are cool enough to take out.

He pours the cooled ashes into a Ziploc baggie and puts it in his pocket. After locking the front door, he takes the tube to the station nearest the cemetery. He finds himself rolling the plastic baggie with his fingers as he walks the rest of the way.

He crouches in front of the gravestone and pours the ashes from the bag into his hand and pushes them into the ground with his fingers so they won't fly away. He does it one small handful at a time until the baggie is empty. He crumples the bag up in his hand and shoves it in his pocket.

He looks around to make sure nobody can see him, and then bends forward and presses his lips against Sherlock's name etched on the marble.

"I would've loved you like that," he whispers.

John gets up and walks in the direction of the tube station, fingering the empty bag.


	10. Serbia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock is taken to a holding facility where he expects to be processed as a prisoner of the state, but instead, he's bundled into the back of a van and taken to a compound deep in the forest around a small-town close to the border of Romania. He knows this isn't good news because he's essentially been made to disappear. Now they can do anything to him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING for this chapter: descriptions of rape, torture, serious character injury**

* * *

**February 13, 2013**

**Donji Milanovac, Serbia**

Sherlock is in Serbia to wrap up the last of the human trafficking ring that Moriarty's people were responsible for. At this point, Sherlock's vision has narrowed to one thing. John. Every time Sherlock gets the shit beaten out of him, barely escapes getting shot, lives rough, goes a day without food – he pictures John sitting in his chair at the Baker Street flat drinking a cup of tea and waiting for Sherlock to come home.

As far as taking down the last of Moriarty's web, Sherlock has come full circle. His first mission as an unofficial representative of MI6 was to infiltrate the trafficking ring in New Orleans, where women from Serbia, Romania and the Czech Republic were taken in the expectation of receiving American citizenship in exchange for two years of unpaid labor. The women, of course, don't realize that the labor in question is prostitution.

Even though the FBI and MI6 have dismantled the hierarchy of the trafficking enterprise, they have yet to cut it off at the source. The people responsible on the European side, headquartered in Serbia, are looking for other buyers in Western Europe now that the American market is closed. This is Sherlock's last mission. The man at the top, the one responsible for the entire scam, is an important political figure, beloved by the armed forces of Serbia. Sherlock is so deeply undercover that not even Mycroft knows where he is. He knows where Sherlock is  _supposed_ to be but has no timetable for when. Sherlock lost contact when he left Germany right before Christmas.

Sherlock is bone weary. He's been away from home for five hundred and thirty-six days and hasn't seen a friendly face in over six months. He misses London. He misses his flat and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and even Mycroft. Most of all, of course, he misses John. He carries John with him every second of those five hundred and thirty-six days. He doesn't remember what John's laugh sounds like anymore but he remembers the look on John's face when he tells Sherlock he's brilliant or when he watches Sherlock play the violin or staring Sherlock down when he's misbehaved.

While trying to gather information on the top man in the trafficking ring, Sherlock is found out. He's pegged as an assassin sent to take down this man, Zoran Brankovich. Sherlock runs. The army follows and the Serbian army isn't a slapdash affair like they were in the nineties. They have infrared devices, highly trained strike teams, including canine search teams with dogs that can follow a trail for days at a time.

Sherlock knows the choice is between dying or surrendering. He still values his life because he has a strong will to survive, to return to London and John. But he also values his life in part because he lives in fear that there's something he's missed, that Moriarty has one last trick up his sleeve even after death and that someone will get to John and make him pay for nothing more offensive than being Sherlock's friend.

So, Sherlock surrenders.

Sherlock is taken to a holding facility where he expects to be processed as a prisoner of the state, but instead, he's bundled into the back of a van and taken to a compound deep in the forest around a small-town close to the border of Romania. He knows this isn't good news because he's essentially been made to disappear. Now they can do anything to him.

Sherlock only has to hold out until Mycroft can manufacture an extraction, but Mycroft has two hurdles. The first, explain to the three people in the UK who can override Mycroft why his younger brother has been given resources to pursue a personal vendetta on a mission that has already been undertaken by MI6 and convince them to give Mycroft  _more_  resources to get his brother out of Serbia.

Mycroft's second hurdle is pinpointing Sherlock's location.

Sherlock can expect to be here for months. He knows Mycroft will devote every second to finding him and getting him out of there. In the meantime, all Sherlock can do is endure. He puts his usual sarcasm and arrogance away. He makes himself as unthreatening as possible. The more cowed they think he is, the less fun they'll get out of hurting him.

The interrogations start immediately. They want to know why he's there to assassinate Brankovich. He's not, actually – that job belongs to someone else. Sherlock's job, as it has been on each mission, is intel gathering so the MI6 agents can go in and do their job. His interrogations start off with physical abuse that's relatively mild. Backhanded slaps, punches to the gut. He can survive the pain, but it's the daily indignations that wear him down. He's not allowed to bathe and the long hair he's dyed blonde is eventually covered in lice. He must use a bucket to relieve himself and he's only let out twice a week to empty it, which adds to the general malodour of his prison cell. They withhold food and when that doesn't work, they withhold water, and when  _that_  doesn't work, they put him in a metal box so small he can't sit, can't stand up, can't lie down and so must crouch for hours at a time until his muscles are screaming in pain.

Sherlock's real hope is that he doesn't lose his usefulness as an informant because then they'll have no excuse to keep him alive so he doles out information as sparingly as he can. Then they bring in a guard named Danilo, a sadistic bastard, the kind always found in facilities like this. He's the kind of man who doesn't care about getting information out of Sherlock; he's only there to make Sherlock's life as horrific as possible. The other two – whose names Sherlock doesn't bother learning – will interrogate him occasionally, but their brutality is limited to a punch to the face here and there or locking him in the box. Danilo, though, likes to be able to  _see_  Sherlock. The box isn't his style because it's a passive form of torture. No, Danilo is the one who likes to string Sherlock up and whip him with his belt, the belt buckle biting deep into his back. He's the one who has the depraved imagination, who comes up with ways to dehumanize Sherlock that go beyond a beating or withholding food.

On three occasions, Danilo makes Sherlock drink his own urine. There's the two days in a row he uses Sherlock as a human toilet. Being shit on is the worst. He isn't allowed a bath afterwards so he throws his clothes into the shit bucket and uses some of his drinking water to clean as much as he can so he doesn't die from _e. coli_  but doesn't risk dying from thirst either. After a few days, they take him into a courtyard and hose him down and then leave Sherlock there, naked, freezing in the Serbian winter.

These are the things that break Sherlock down. The beatings are a gift in comparison. This is how psychological torture works – you become grateful for the things that most people would contemplate with horror. At least when they're beating him, the pain gives him the opportunity to disconnect from his body. It's during these beatings that he has enough presence of mind to create a cupola at the top of his mind palace where he sits with John, who begins to take on the mythos of a god to Sherlock. The source of all good things is John. He is a deity. He is Sherlock's higher power.

Danilo is the one who sexually assaults Sherlock. Usually, he forces himself into Sherlock's mouth, but eventually he works himself up to anal rape, using spit as lubrication. The first time happens after Sherlock has been deprived of sleep for forty-eight hours and has started hallucinating. Moriarty is everywhere. He sees him stick the gun in his mouth and shoot himself but he doesn't die. He taunts Sherlock –  _even with a hole in the back of my head, Sherly, I can still burn the heart out of you. I can make your pet dance_. He dozes off while being fucked.  _This_ , he thinks later,  _is what my life has been reduced to – I can take a nap while being raped_.

It's not the physical pain so much as the psychological pain of being violated, and that's the whole point. Rape isn't about sex. It's about power, which is why heterosexual men like Danilo can get an erection in order to rape a man. The second time Danilo rapes him, he doesn't even bother to use spit and he tears the skin around Sherlock's anus. The anal fissure is large enough that Sherlock's rule about not giving Danilo the satisfaction of vocalizing his pain goes out the window. He screams into his fist. Afterwards, he's in agony and there's no way to clean himself. He worries that having a bowel movement with an open wound will cause an abscess and that he'll die of sepsis.

Then two things happen back to back. The first thing is Zivko.

Zivko is the young guard who stands outside Sherlock's cell. Sherlock's not entirely sure why they need someone to guard it. It's not like Sherlock can pick the lock when there are dead bolts on the outside of the door. Even if he managed to get out of his cell, he's not strong enough to fight off both Zivko and the other guards stationed between him and freedom. It's most likely that Zivko's job is a sinecure and he's the son or nephew of someone prominent.

Sherlock discovers his name is Zivko because Danilo is constantly insulting him, calling him a  _pussy_  because he's listens to music through his earbuds so he doesn't have to listen to Sherlock yell when he's being beaten. Zivko's heart is too soft, the hulking brute tells him. How will he ever become a man if he has the heart of a woman? A true Serb, he says, would enjoy hearing an enemy of the state being tortured. The sounds of his pain would be music to the ears of a true Serb, not the Western shit Zivko listens to. A Serbian soldier will do anything for his nation.

Sherlock sees the tears that shimmer on the edge of Zivko's lashes. He doesn't want to be here, Sherlock can tell. He always has dark circles under his eyes and his hands tremble slightly.

These guards are old enough to have been young men during the civil wars of the 1990s. They are old enough to have lost brothers, fathers, and friends to Croatia's brutal ethnic cleansings. They are old enough to have mothers, sisters, girlfriends, and friends who were raped and brutalized by Croat soldiers. These men have lived through the worst atrocities humans can effect upon another.

They have had to harden themselves so much that they have, in turn, become copies of the people who brutalized them.

Zivko, though, is just a boy. He wasn't here in the nineties. He doesn't seem older than sixteen to Sherlock. He's got the usual high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes of ethnic Serbs but his skin is pale. Sherlock can see Russian ancestry in Zivko's blushing cheeks and startlingly green eyes.

Zivko is constantly baited and mocked without mercy. Sherlock almost feels sorry for him. Eventually the taunts turn to Zivko's lack of sexual experience – what kind of Serb is Zivko if he's never had sex with a woman? How can he be a true son of Serbia if he's not man enough to tumble even a lowly barmaid?

Danilo comes up with a plan for Zivko to lose his virginity to Sherlock.

"Here," he tells Zivko in Serbo-Croatian. "We'll give this British man a bath and put some lipstick on him. Maybe we can find him a dress to wear and some knickers, too. We'll stuff his cock and balls up inside his knickers and all you have to do is fuck the hole."

The other two guards stationed in Sherlock's block of cells laugh and jeer. Sherlock can see the horror in Zivko's eyes but Sherlock's position doesn’t allow him to help anyone, including himself. At least they're giving him a bath, Sherlock thinks.

They allow Sherlock a bath and a razor. He has to put on a dress they've found for him somewhere. And, as they promised, Sherlock is required to put on red lipstick although he's spared the minor humiliation of having to wear women's underpants. Then they put him and Zivko in an interrogation room with a two-way mirror and lock them inside. Zivko looks terrified. The mic from behind the blacked-out glass is on and the guards start hissing and cat-calling. Zivko is trembling.

"Just get it over with and they'll leave you alone," Sherlock says impatiently.

"How am I supposed to get it up when I don't like boys?" Zivko spits. "I'm not a fag like you."

"Pretend I'm a girl," Sherlock says with a glare. "Nobody outside of here will know."

" _God_  will know!" he says indignantly. " _I_  will know!"

The guards heckle Zivko. "Take off your clothes!" they shout. "Get on with it!" Sherlock can hear the guards congratulating one another on this clever scheme. Danilo's hateful joke kills two birds with one stone. Humiliating Zivko means humiliating Sherlock.

Zivko looks at Sherlock, pleading. Sherlock beckons him closer.

"If I can help you get an erection, can you do this?"

Zivko shakes his head.

"For God's sake, you don't have the option not to do it!"

"Fine!" Zivko relents.

Sherlock tells him he will use his mouth to help Zivko get hard and bring him close enough to orgasm that when Zivko penetrates him, he won't have to do it for long. He tells Zivko to use lots of spit.

"Okay?" Sherlock asks.

Zivko nods and undoes his trousers. Sherlock drops to his knees and takes Zivko's flaccid penis in his mouth and in just a few minutes, Zivko is hard. When he starts to grab Sherlock's hair and his legs begin to shake, Sherlock pulls off. The lipstick that the guards made Sherlock wear looks like blood on Zivko's penis.

"Push me over the table roughly," he tells Zivko.

"Why?"

"Because if you're kind to me, they'll treat us both worse."

Once Zivko is inside him, it's over in less than a minute.

The guards congratulate Zivko, slapping him on the back and telling him he's a man now. The boy actually smiles at their congratulations, but Sherlock can see the look in Danilo's eyes calculating how best to use this against Zivko. Sherlock has probably just made things worse for Zivko.

Danilo ratchets up the psychological abuse of Zivko now that he has something concrete to use against the boy. They call Zivko every creative name for homosexual they can think of. They threaten to tell his mother. They ask him if he wants to have alone time with his  _boyfriend_ , Sherlock. They'll set up a date for him and Sherlock, they say. Has Zivko gone to confession yet? Is Zivko going to help Sherlock escape so they can run away together?

Three weeks after Zivko is forced to rape Sherlock, he kills himself.

It turns out Sherlock was right about Zivko being related to someone important. He's Zoran Brankovich's son. Because of Zivko's suicide and the resultant furor, Mycroft is able to pinpoint Sherlock's location.

Because of Zivko's suicide, Sherlock is air-lifted out of the hell that is Serbia thirty-two days after being captured.

~*~

**March 16, 2013**

**Belgrade, Serbia**

The agents who pull Sherlock out of his restraints, where Danilo (now dead) was beating him with his belt, dislocate Sherlock's shoulder in their haste to get in and out again without causing an international incident. Once they're in the air, a medic stabs Sherlock with a morphine syrette and with the help of two agents, performs a closed reduction to pop the head of Sherlock's humerus back into place. He puts it in a sling and then does as much as he can to fix Sherlock up before they land.

Sherlock is already passed out from the pain of the reduction, though, and when he wakes up an hour or so later, he's bundled in blankets in the backseat of a car, slumped against the medic. The medic immediately sticks him with another bulb of morphine. Sherlock drifts off to the sound of the low voices of the agents in the car with him, and the rise and fall of the medic's chest as he breathes.

When he wakes up again, he's already been secreted inside the British embassy in Belgrade where he's immediately surrounded by a team of doctors and nurses. They insert a port IV in his neck, not even bothering going through his hand. They have to push antibiotics, a saline drip, an electrolyte solution, an antifungal and a corticosteroid into his body as quickly as possible.

Three nurses are tasked with the job of bathing him and treating the lice in his hair and pubic hair. They want to shave both, but Sherlock refuses to have his head shaved completely and, in the end, he's left with an inch of dark brown hair, only a few locks here and there tipped with blonde from dyeing his hair. The pubic hair he willingly gives up, though he knows he’ll regret it when it’s growing back because it'll itch like hell.

He's contracted a fungal infection on his skin from living in filth for four and a half weeks. The patches look like bed sores and some of them seep with fluid. They smear anti-fungal cream all over the sores and it burns. They draw vials and vials of blood. If being tortured didn't kill him, Sherlock's beginning to believe the goddamn nurses might. He's too weak and exhausted to complain much, though. Besides, he just wants to lie down between clean white sheets and sleep for about a week and then he wants to go home.

His back is a mess and he ends up needing sixty-three stitches. As he feared, he developed an abscess from the anal fissure the second time Danilo raped him. His back hurts too much to lie down on it so a nurse gets onto the exam table and holds him up as best he can while the doctor puts his calves into the metal stirrups . He drains the abscess, injects a local anesthetic and sews up the fissure. The doctor smears a combination of antibiotic ointment and topical anesthetic on the wound  and sticks a wad of gauze in between Sherlock's arse cheeks.

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock has three stitches, a prescription for a stool softener, and a list of instructions (to add to his growing list of instructions) on what he can and cannot eat so that his bowel movements won't irritate the wound.

They don't ask how he got an anal fissure that turned into an abscess, but they probably don't have to.

When he's been cleaned and stitched and stuffed with medications and solutions, a nurse pushes his IV trolley and walks him (very slowly) to a room where he'll stay before getting on a private plane and heading home. Mycroft is sitting on the bed wearing, of all things, a jumper and jeans. He hasn't shaved in a couple of days.

When he sees Sherlock, he covers his mouth with his hand and tears squeeze from his eyes. Mycroft keeps himself in check while the nurse helps Sherlock sit, as comfortably as possible, in a chair, with his IV trolley safely tucked next to him.

When she leaves, Mycroft bends over Sherlock, cradles his little brother's head in his hands, and kisses his temple while salty tears fall on Sherlock's cheek. For the first and probably last time in Sherlock's life, Mycroft says  _I love you_. Sherlock buries his head in his older brother's chest and sobs. When his shuddering body has settled down to shivers, Mycroft sits in the other chair and tells Sherlock that he is never, ever again allowed to do anything more dangerous than chasing criminals around London.

Sherlock laughs weakly. There's a moment of silence and then Sherlock asks about John. Mycroft hesitates before picking up a brown folder on the table next to him and passing it over.

There's a picture of John sitting with six other people, sitting around a table outside of a pub. Five of them are laughing. The two that aren’t laughing are John and another man. Instead of laughing, they’re looking at each other, heads bent close together.

Sherlock, who can infer your job, your relationship, and what you ate for lunch just by looking at you, has no doubt what kind of relationship John has with this man.

“His boyfriend?” Sherlock asks Mycroft. Sherlock’s voice is hoarse, his larynx inflamed because of the screaming he did, both when Danila was beating him, and when the MI6 agent dislocated his shoulder (and then  _again_  when they popped it back in.)

Mycroft nods. Sherlock can tell Mycroft is watching his face.

The photo captures a private moment, one that shouldn't have been caught on film by one of Mycroft's agents. One that  _wouldn't_  have been captured on film except that Sherlock demanded security and surveillance for John when he and Mycroft were planning his fake suicide.

All of Sherlock’s physical pain disappears in the face of this one, gnawing wound. For a moment, he can’t catch his breath.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he and John were never going to be a sure thing. Sherlock decided in New Orleans, all those months ago, that he would tell John how he felt, even if John couldn’t return his love. The boyfriend complicates things, but Sherlock isn’t going to go back on the vow he made to himself.

Sherlock flips the file closed and slides it onto the table. He stares at his shaking hands. It will be weeks before they stop shaking.

~*~

When the MI6 analysts come to debrief Sherlock the day after they arrive in Belgrade, Mycroft chases them away with what can only be described as threats of bodily harm and personal destruction. They scatter like cockroaches in the light and Sherlock can't help but laugh. It's the first time he's laughed in months.

~*~

When he wakes the next day, the debriefing begins. Sherlock wants to get it over with in one day, but Mycroft puts a halt to the questioning after three hours. He makes Sherlock eat one of the bland foods allowed on his diet, and then tells him to take a nap. When Sherlock refuses, Mycroft threatens to have something put in his IV to make him sleep so Sherlock lies down carefully on his side and closes his eyes. To his surprise, he sleeps.

When he wakes, Mycroft makes him eat again and then he allows the agents back in for another three hours. Despite the fact that Mycroft's mollycoddling drags the process out longer than he wants it to, Sherlock is grateful. Usually, by the end of the three-hour sessions, he's having a hard time answering questions. His body is so exhausted and his mind isn't much better.

Eventually, it's done and Sherlock can finally go home.

~*~

**March 21, 2013**

On his fifth day in Belgrade, a nurse helps Sherlock into a pair of fleece bottoms and long sleeve t-shirt provided by Mycroft then hands him a warm coat (not his beloved Belstaff – that's waiting at home), thick socks and trainers. Sherlock meets Mycroft outside his room and they walk – slowly due to Sherlock's injuries – to a car that takes them to a private airfield where they board a small private jet.

Four hours later he lands in London.


	11. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock watches as John—miraculously, unbelievably—breaks into a grin. And then comes the affectionate but exasperated shake of his head. See what happens when you run off without me?_

**Thursday, March 21, 2013**

**London**

It's six in the evening, and the sun has set but it's not quite full dark. Sherlock is sitting in the back of a sleek, black car, waiting for John's boyfriend to leave so Sherlock can finally go home. At half six, Sherlock watches him step out onto the pavement and waits until he walks off in the direction of the tube station.

Sherlock counts to ten, then picks up his small duffel bag, gets out of the car and makes his way slowly across the street to the familiar door of 221B. He's beginning to move a bit easier now that he's back in London, as though the city is infusing him with life.

The door is unlocked; inside he sets his bag down so that he can hang up his coat. Inside the bag is the file from the embassy infirmary detailing his injuries and giving instructions for their care and a few pairs of pajama bottoms, t-shirts, and socks—brand new but washed—that Mycroft had the foresight to bring to the embassy infirmary with him.

He picks his bag up and walks very slowly up the stairs, avoiding all the creaky bits so that his ascent is silent. He opens the sitting room door and peeks inside, suddenly terrified.

John is sitting in his chair, and his chest is bare. At first, Sherlock thinks he's naked and an image of him and the boyfriend together pierces his chest, but then John stands, his mouth opening in shock, his tea mug clattering to the carpet, spilling but not breaking.

"John," Sherlock says, his voice still broken despite the days of recovery in Belgrade, or maybe it's just John finally here in front of him. He clears his throat and tries again. "John."

John says nothing, only stares, openmouthed. For a moment neither of them moves. Then John inches his way around his chair and into the kitchen, keeping his wide eyes on Sherlock as he does.

Sherlock hurries after John and finds him in Sherlock's bedroom, but the room has changed. Sherlock doesn't bother to catalogue the changes. His eyes are only for John, who's yanking open a drawer and pulling on a t-shirt.

"John, I'm sorry, I had to leave. Moriarty had a sniper on you and he would've shot you if they didn't see me jump. Then Moriarty killed himself—"

“Sherlock, you bloody, lying bastard! I saw you fall—you  _made me_ watch you die!” John shouts angrily. He takes a deep breath. “God, I fucking missed you. Come here you shithead, you owe me a hug. I'm sending you my therapy bills, too.”

John makes his way towards Sherlock, his arms outstretched. Sherlock wants to return the hug but, unfortunately, this is the first time Sherlock has been outside the clearly demarcated boundaries of the infirmary or his brother's presence. Sherlock's threat assessment system is blaring and screaming at him to  _make yourself small keep eyes on the threat down now_ and Sherlock, who has been waiting for this moment for almost six hundred days, drops into a crouch and clasps his hands over his head.

"Sherlock?"

"Sorry, gimme a minute, just a minute, oh, god, I'm sorry, just need a, a minute, just, whew," Sherlock mutters, trying not to hyperventilate.

Sherlock feels John move to the bedside table and click on the lamp. He knows it's a lamp and it means light and that he should open his eyes, but he can't yet.

_Stupid brain, why are you doing this? It's just John! John is good. Stand up. Say, hello. It's good to see you, John. You're more beautiful than I remembered. I've missed you. Stupid brain! Stand up! Goddammit! You're. Fucking. This. Up._

"Sherlock," John says in a calm voice.

Sherlock remembers,  _oh, yes, good John, beautiful John_ is a sufferer of PTSD himself so this won't be completely unfamiliar to him.

"I'm standing near the window, Sherlock. Look at me. I'll wait."

_(Yes, exactly, that's what John does, he waits, he waits for me to come home and I've curled into a ball on my bedroom floor—no his bedroom floor, he changed it, why change it? Convenience? No. Not any more convenient than his room, just less steps up. Besides, very inconvenient to move my shit out and his in. Larger? No, the upstairs room is larger. Same wardrobe, same setee, same dresser, same lamps, same tables, same backlit curio shelf, different bed. Why only the bed? Kept everything but the bed. Sleep in a bed, have sex in a bed, he has sex in a new bed, but everything's the same because? Because why?)_

_(Sentiment.)_

"You moved into my bedroom," Sherlock chokes out.

"I did," John says.

His voice is neutral, calm. Sherlock can imagine him leaning against the wall near the window, his arse the only thing connecting him to the wall. Arms crossed. Legs crossed at the ankle. Relaxed.

"Can I come sit next to you?" John asks.

There's just a hint of desperation in his voice. Nobody but Sherlock ( _maybe the boyfriend, no, don't think about him_ ) would catch. John's a doctor, of course, so he wants to do something to fix it.

"You can't fix me," Sherlock mutters.

"I can treat your injuries. If you'll let me. I can see that you're injured, Sherlock."

His voice is: amenable, conversational. He speaks slowly, enunciating each syllable so there's no room for misinterpretation of his tone of voice. He's saying  _I'm safe, let me near you_.

"Sorry," Sherlock whispers again.

"Please don't say that," John says, a hitch in his breath.

Sherlock opens his eyes. He stares at the familiar hardwood floors in his bedroom ( _no, John's_ ) bedroom. Now he's embarrassed, but John (  _so much more observant than you gave him credit for_ ) knows he's opened his eyes.

"Let me just sit on the floor near you. Not next to you. I won't touch you."

There's no hiding the tears in John's voice now. ( _I've broken him_.)

Sherlock lifts his head and sees John crouched underneath the window, swiping tears off his face, but the tears keep coming and coming, dripping down his face, huge fat tears, yet John is  _smiling_. He smiles at Sherlock and laughs, gestures at his face.  _Can you believe this shit? I'm crying like a fucking baby!_ Sherlock tries to smile back.

"I really want to hug you," John whispers.

Sherlock starts to nod. John's smile is making him smile, too, even though they're both smiling rather weakly. Slowly, John moves and when he's about two feet away, he holds out his hand. Sherlock reaches for it and John steps closer to help him up. John uses the hand he's gripping to pull Sherlock into a hug, and Sherlock's not fast enough to stop it.

"My back!" Sherlock cries out, hissing and ducking away from John's arms, which just pushes him  _into_ John and they both stumble into the wardrobe.

"God, I'm sorry, Sherlock, I wasn't thinking," John says. "Let me look at you. Wait, let's go into the kitchen. I need to get a good look at you."

In the kitchen, he flips on the light, and it's the first time he's really seen Sherlock since he came in not more than ten minutes ago. The light in the bedroom is dim and Sherlock was crouched most of the time.

"Oh, Sherlock," John breathes. He swallows and clears his throat. "Has anyone—have you been looked at?"

"Yes, at the, um, embassy. The doctors reports, they're in my bag," Sherlock says and points over his shoulder towards the sitting room. He turns to go and get it, but John stops him.

"I'll get it, sit down, sit down. I'll put the kettle on. God, listen to me. I'm every fucking British mum ever.  _I'll put the kettle on, dear_. Oh, fuck, does Mrs. Hudson know you're alive? Does  _Mycroft_ know?" John asks, his voice trailing off into the other room.

"Mycroft helped me plan the—you know, whole. Fake death. Thing," Sherlock finishes lamely.

From the sitting room, John shouts, "I'm going to fucking  _kill_ that bastard!"

John comes into the kitchen, carrying Sherlock's black duffel bag like it only weighs a pound. It felt so heavy on Sherlock's shoulder, but Sherlock is malnourished despite his five days of being force fed by Mycroft.

"Mycroft  _knew_ this was happening to you?" John asks, gesturing at Sherlock.

Sherlock finds himself in the unique position of defending his older brother.

"He got me out as soon as he could."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't fucking soon enough, was it? You look like a refugee, Sherlock! Like pictures of concentration camp survivors in World War Two! What do you weigh, have they weighed you? I wouldn't put you at more than a hundred and forty pounds! You're at least twenty pounds underweight!"

John begins to list all the things that are wrong with Sherlock, so Sherlock puts up a hand to stop him.

"It's in my bag. The file."

"What file?" John asks, staring at the duffel like it holds the mysteries of the universe.

"From the embassy infirmary. I've been in the British embassy, in the infirmary, for the last five days."

" _Which_ British embassy, Sherlock?"

"Oh, sorry. Yes. Uh, Belgrade. Serbia."

"Okay, look. I've got about a thousand questions. Right now, though, all I care about is—one, that you're home, and two, that you let me look at you."

Sherlock nods, though he doesn't want to. The only reason Mycroft let him come home, though, is because he promised he would give John all the information on his treatment.

"In the bag, there's a folder with the brief that details my injuries. There's medicine and bandages in there as well."

"Okay. Sit there. Don't move."

John points at one of the kitchen chairs and Sherlock does as he's told. He winces when he sits down, though, because he's got three stitches in his arse and sixty-three on his back and three broken and two cracked ribs.

John finds the appropriate file and puts it on the table. He starts pulling things out. Sherlock's t-shirts and pajama bottoms, he pulls out and lays on the other chair. John handles Sherlock's clothes like they're precious things, carrying them over to the other chair, setting them down and giving them a little pat. Something in Sherlock's chest starts to loosen. Then John takes out the boxes and tubes of medicines prescribed by the doctors at the embassy.

"I'm gonna make tea and get my kit. Don't move. Seriously, Sherlock, do not even get up from that chair, are we clear?"

Sherlock nods. He will not get up from this chair. He's not sure he can. John comes back into the kitchen holding a bundle of blue silk and carrying his desert camouflage med kit with the big red cross on it. He sets both down on the table near Sherlock. John takes the kettle, fills it with water, puts it on the heating coil and clicks it on.

A pad of paper and a pencil come out of nowhere and John leans against the sink and looks at Sherlock. He's not looking at  _Sherlock_ , though (and Sherlock knows this). He's looking at Sherlock's  _body_. John is reading him the way Sherlock used to read crime scenes.

"Were you beaten?" John asks abruptly.

"The brief will—"

"Sod the brief, Sherlock. I'd be a shit doctor if let a piece of paper tell me what's wrong with you. So, were you beaten?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, staring at his shaking hands.

"What were you beaten with?"

"A belt."

"On your back?"

"Yes."

"Are there any lacerations or welts that need to be treated?"

"I have four deep lacerations on my back and a dozen smaller ones."

"Stitches?"

"Sixty-three in total."

"Jesus  _Christ_ , Sherlock," John says, putting down his notebook and rubbing his hands over his face. "Why aren't you in hospital?"

"I, well—I begged Mycroft to let me come home and he said I could only if you took responsibility for my treatment."

"You let me think you were dead for  _eighteen months_ and then you come back here less than a  _week_ after being rescued from torture and you made a promise on my behalf to be responsible for your treatment?"

Sherlock raises one shoulder in an almost-shrug, but then doesn't.

"I didn't—I didn't consider it in that light. I just wanted to come home. If you're not comfortable—"

"Shut up, just. Stop talking," John says, glaring at him.

John looks at Sherlock then at the floor, his jaw working. John has always been so easy to read, and not just for Sherlock. John's face expresses how he feels, even when he thinks he's hiding. Sherlock has dozens and dozens of pictures in his mind palace of what each lift of John's eyebrow or quirk of his lips means.

Finally, John crosses his arms and bends forward slightly, looking straight into Sherlock's eyes.

"If I'm going to be responsible for your treatment, then we need to set down some rules."

"Okay," Sherlock says, not realizing he'd been holding his breath until he speaks.

"First rule. You don't hide any pain or injuries from me. That means, you answer all my questions honestly. I'm going to examine you from top to bottom and I'll take notes, but I need you to be totally transparent with me."

Sherlock keeps nodding, looking as earnest as he can because, yes,  _yes_ , obviously, anything John asks of him, he'll do it because he doesn't want to be anywhere but right here.

"Second rule. If you feel pain somewhere you didn't before, if there's inflammation or swelling somewhere new, if something isn't starting to feel better when you know it should, tell me.

"Third rule. You take every pill I prescribe you, including pain medication. You will not try to tough it out. I can see when you're in pain, Sherlock, even when it's minor. You're not the only one who can observe things."

"I know that."

"Yeah, well, don't hide anything from me. I'll go over the list of medications they prescribed and if I think you should take them, you will. Anything else I think you need to take, I'll prescribe myself."

"Of course," Sherlock says, nodding. His head is going to fall off his neck if he nods anymore.

"Last rule. I'm not just responsible for your injuries, I'm responsible for your health. Do you understand the difference? Don't roll your eyes at me. That means you eat when I tell you to eat, and you sleep when I tell you to sleep, and if I say I have to stand in the bathroom and watch you take a piss because I want to make sure it's coming out the right way, then that's what I'm going to do."

"Fine," Sherlock says through gritted teeth. "You do realize that you're saying the same thing a dozen different ways, right?"

"You want to hear me out or do you want to go to hospital? I work at the Royal London, I can have you admitted."

"When did you start working there?"

"Last year. It's not important—we can catch up later. If you break any rules, you'll get a firsthand tour of where I work, because I  _will_ have you admitted."

"I don't have any injuries that would require a hospital stay, John."

John holds his gaze, his nostrils flaring. Then he blinks a few times and looks down at his hands. John's hands, Sherlock notes, are steady.

"You're back and I  _need_ —you can't lie to me anymore. This,  _this_ , I can do." He gestures towards Sherlock. "I can make you healthy, keep you that way, but I can't do it if you won't let me."

"I know," Sherlock says quietly.

John opens his mouth to say something, shakes his head slowly once, twice, then picks up his notebook and pen and writes something in it.

"Okay, sixty-three stitches. I'll look at them when I do my physical exam. Internal injuries?"

"Bruised right kidney."

"Any blood in your urine?"

“It was clear by yesterday afternoon.”

“Other internal injuries?”

“Nothing major.”

"Define  _major_ ," John says flatly, giving Sherlock a pointed look.

"Bruising, but no internal bleeding. The rest of my organs are working and intact."

"Any broken bones?"

"Three broken ribs on the right side. Two cracked on the left."

“Only three?” John mutters, writing it down.

“You'd rather I have more?” Sherlock asks, but without any heat.

“I'd rather you have none. Which ones?"

"Fourth, fifth, and sixth on the right. On the left, fifth and sixth."

"What about your wrist?” John asks, nodding at the wrapping on Sherlock's right wrist.

“Sprained.”

“Any other broken bones or sprains?”

“Hairline fracture in my left elbow.”

"This shoulder," John says, pointing at his left shoulder. "Dislocated?"

"Yes."

"Anything else I need to know about before I do my exam?"

"A fungal infection on my skin, mostly over my chest and legs. I was treated for head and pubic lice."

John makes a note and then he puts the pad and pen aside. He crosses his arms.

"Is that everything?"

"Yes," Sherlock lies, exhaustion pulling at his body and his mind.

Sherlock has spent the last ten minutes rapidly coming to the conclusion that if he tells John he was raped then it will be months, many long months, before Sherlock could convince John he was well enough, emotionally and physically, for a sexual relationship. In fact, John would probably require a signed affidavit from a trained professional in rape recovery stating Sherlock was sufficiently over his trauma to give informed consent before he did so much as touch Sherlock.

And while Sherlock wasted those months trying to convince John he knew what he wanted, John's relationship with his boyfriend would be gaining more and more traction, making it harder and less likely Sherlock would get what he wanted. So Sherlock decides to lie. Well, he's just not going to tell  _all_ the truth.

“Sherlock, look at me,” John says.

Sherlock raises his eyes to John's face.

“Is there anything you're not telling me? I know that prisoners are sometimes subjected to, um, you know—sexual assault in places like that.”

“One guard forced oral sex on me twice but no physical damage,” Sherlock says, which is true.

“Did he, um, ejaculate into your, your mouth?”

“Gratefully, no,” Sherlock says. The reply has the added bonus of being true.

“Did they test you for STIs?”

“Yes, but I will have to be tested again, obviously.”

“But there was no, um—”

“Disease free but, as I said, I'll need to be tested again.”

“I'll draw your blood once a month and take it to the hospital lab.”

John takes a deep breath and then begins ticking off Sherlock’s injuries. "So, lacerations on your back due to beating with a belt. Bruised kidney. Internal abdominal bruising. Broken and cracked ribs. Hairline fracture to the left elbow. Sprained right wrist. Dislocated left shoulder. Fungal skin infection."

Sherlock watches as John—miraculously, unbelievably—breaks into a grin. And then comes the affectionate but exasperated shake of his head.  _See what happens when you run off without me?_ John lays his hand gently on Sherlock's arm and then the tips of his fingers slide rhythmically up and down the tender skin on the inside of Sherlock's forearm. Sherlock's dick starts to react and Sherlock bites back a groan of frustration. He turns himself slightly so John can't see.

Then he does something Sherlock never expected, not even in his sweetest dreams. John takes Sherlock's hand, wraps it in both of his, and then brings it up to his lips and kisses the back of Sherlock's knuckles before gently letting go.

"I missed you so much," John whispers brokenly and then gathers himself and smiles. "Let's get you some tea before you have to submit to me poking around your body and griping about the inferior quality of doctors found in Belgrade."

~*~

After John makes them tea, he only lets Sherlock drink half before he tells him to stand up and helps Sherlock get undressed. He pulls the cuffs of the long sleeve t-shirt off first, so that only Sherlock's head sticks out. And then he pinches the collar and pulls it off in one easy go.

Sherlock can hear the sharp intake of breath behind him. John comes around to the front. He's blinking quickly, trying to master his emotions. Sherlock's heart swells with love for him.

"Here," John says, but his voice breaks. He clears his throat. Picks up Sherlock's dressing gown. Shakes it out. "Here, put this on before I get your bottoms off, too."

Sherlock slips his arms in and John belts it loosely. He steps back a bit and bends at the waist, pushes Sherlock's dressing gown aside, hooks his fingers inside Sherlock's fleece bottoms and pants both, and gently slides them down. He keeps his eyes focused on the clothes and not Sherlock's body, which is good, because Sherlock's dick has decided to show its love and appreciation for the one hundred and sixty-nine centimeters of former army doctor currently crouched at Sherlock's feet.

It gets harder as Sherlock watches it and he wants to shut his dressing gown, but one hand is on John's shoulder and the other clutches the back of the chair. Sherlock quickly decides John witnessing his erection is worse than falling, so he grabs both edges of the open front of his dressing gown, and grips them together in his hands, one hand above his waist and the other at crotch level.

Because this is quickly turning into slapstick, of course, first John gets trapped inside the confines of Sherlock's dressing gown, and when he smacks it out of the way, laughing, Sherlock, who isn't steadying himself anymore, loses balance as he steps out of his bottoms and John grabs Sherlock's hips to steady him right as Sherlock grabs for John's shoulder, letting go of his dressing gown to do so. Sherlock's dick, no longer hidden behind blue silk, reaches out lovingly towards John.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbles, and tries to wrap himself back up, but his erection pokes out anyway, trying to communicate its love to John.

“Uh,” John says, still holding onto Sherlock's hips.

He seems transfixed by Sherlock's penis, who returns the feelings with a happy little twitch. John's fingers dig into Sherlock's skin. John pushes himself abruptly to his feet.

“You're exhausted, your body's confused,” John says, blushing furiously and avoiding Sherlock's face. “It'll go away once I start the exams.”

But it doesn't go away.

John eases the dressing gown off Sherlock's shoulders and has him hold it around his waist. Sherlock feels John's body heat behind him and his nerves draw taut in anticipation.

"This is coming off," John says, his fingers tracing the tape around his ribs. "I'll give you dihydrocodeinone for the pain, but I'm not having you get pneumonia because you can't take a deep breath ‘cause of the goddamn wrappings."

Then John's fingers move over Sherlock's back, his touch feather light. Sherlock can hear him breathing, imagines he can feel John's hot and humid breath whispering over his skin. He begs his body to stop reacting to John's nearness, but it won't. John peels the scratchy tape from around Sherlock's body. It's supposed to only stick to itself, but it feels like it's pulling all his stitches out as it comes unwound.

"When was the last time you took something for the pain, Sherlock?" John asks.

Sherlock opens his eyes to find his cock poking out of the seam of his dressing gown, staring him in the face and John standing off to the side looking slightly embarrassed, but determined to remain professional.

"Uh, this morning," Sherlock says.

"You idiot," John says, sounding frustrated. “See, this is the kind of shit you always pull! Just. Sorry. I'm sorry for yelling. Here, let me get—”

John trails off and Sherlock is silent while he turns and fetches a glass of water and pulls a blister pack of dihydrocodeinone out of his kit. He pushes two out through the foil backing and drops them in Sherlock's hand.

"Take those, now," John says.

Sherlock looks at the pills and then down at his body where he's clutching the blue silk tightly around his waist. His erection hasn't gone down yet and Sherlock hastily covers it with one hand and uses the other to keep his dressing gown around his waist. He looks helplessly at John.

"Sherlock, do you want to—I mean, it's clearly determined to, um—it might help you relax if you want to go take care of that and then come back," John asks, his face flushing so beautifully pink.

"No."

"Look, I know that, before you died--fake died, whatever-- we didn't talk about our pers--”

"It's you," Sherlock blurts out.

John tilts his head and furrows his brow. "Me?"

"Your nearness."

"Huh," John says, his face unreadable. He blinks his eyes a few times, tilts his head, then opens his mouth to say something.

“I mean, it’s, uh, been awhile since, uh,” Sherlock says, cutting him off. “Since the last time I had, you know, sex.”

Sherlock winces at his fumbling delivery.

“So you're not a virgin?” John asks with puerile glee.

“John, I'm thirty-seven years old,”  Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes.

“Right, right,” John murmurs, nodding his head. “So then, it’s men you, uh, fancy?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says and gestures to his persistent erection. “Obviously.”

Sherlock waits, but nothing else is forthcoming and he feels himself wilting in embarrassment underneath John's stare.

"Sorry," Sherlock mutters at last.

"No, it’s just—but it's not  _me_ you're, um, attract--I mean it's just ‘cause I'm a man?”

_It's you, John, god yes, it's always you, it's always been you._

Sherlock swallows, and opens his mouth to say it, but John cuts him off.

“It's fine. I'm sure it'll go away as I examine you," John says, with a slight frown. “Here. Open your mouth. I'll drop the pills in and then hold the glass so you can drink.”

Sherlock obediently opens his mouth and drinks. Because Sherlock is half a foot taller than John, the angle John holds the glass at is inexact. As a result, some water escapes between the glass and the corners of Sherlock's lips and the water travels over Sherlock's chin and then down his neck to his chest.

John watches the path of the water with open mouthed lasciviousness, his pupils dilating so quickly he has to squint against the light. Sherlock checks John's crotch and is delighted to find John has a little erection of his own happening down there. (Not that it's  _little_ , just that he's obviously not as erect as Sherlock is, though  _damn_ Sherlock would love to see John's prick fully erect. Preferably fully erect because of Sherlock.)

Sherlock has known John is attracted to him almost since the moment John himself figured it out. At the time, Sherlock thought they would have time to explore their relationship but after Moriarty’s trial he and John never slowed down enough to have the chance to even acknowledge the mutual attraction and then--and then Sherlock died and John found someone to replace him.

Although it would _appear_ that John has remained attracted to Sherlock despite the fake death and subsequent boyfriend, and that is at least a point in Sherlock's favor.

As John examines and treats his back and the pain meds take effect, Sherlock's erection gradually falters and then recedes and Sherlock breathes a huge sigh of relief. Sherlock lets himself relax into John's care and responds to John's various commands without much thought.

"I'm going to clean the shallow cuts on your back now," John murmurs.

When John dabs the betadine on his cuts, Sherlock hisses and instinctively twists away. John holds him in place with a gentle but firm hand and begins murmuring a litany of soothing words and Sherlock almost relaxes into John’s touch. After a while, the stinging pain of each individual cut – ironically, worse than the original lashes – disappears into one sheet of pain, like a choir of individual voices reaching the crescendo and holding one note together.

Next, John gently pulls off the bandages on the major wounds on his back. The worst ones are in the meat of his shoulders. John cleans them and then he smears them with antibacterial ointment and bandages them back up.

After treating each set of injuries, John changes his nitrile gloves. He also keeps scrupulous notes, raising his head to look at the ceiling, his tongue stroking his bottom lip as he thinks of what to write. Sherlock has to avert his eyes because he finds the gesture painfully erotic and he's only just gotten his body back under control.

Finally, John washes his hands for the last time, and turns to Sherlock with a fresh glass of water and his antibiotic pills. He helps Sherlock dress and they're back into their usual state of companionable silence.

“I want you to eat a little porridge and then turn in. It's almost nine. Go rest on the sofa and I'll bring it to you.”

Sherlock does as he's told, and he actually dozes off while waiting for John. John has drenched the oats in butter and plenty of sugar. It tastes like heaven to Sherlock. John sits with him while he eats and then forces him to drink a large glass of milk. Sherlock is drowsy enough to fall asleep on the couch but John helps him to the bedroom.  

"You're gonna sleep down here, okay? We'll see about the bedrooms when you're better, but for now there's no point you walking up extra stairs. Plus, I want to have you near me when I'm down here."

Sherlock just nods, his body heavy with exhaustion. He lets himself be led into the room and gently guided into the bed and then John is covering him with the duvet and about to leave and Sherlock panics.

"Please, don't leave," he says. "Just until I fall asleep?"

"Yeah, all right," John says, smiling warmly. "Just let me fetch my book, yeah?"

Sherlock hovers between wakefulness and sleep until John comes back with his book. As soon as John settles into the bed, under the duvet, Sherlock feels peace wash over him for the first time in almost two years. Sleep quickly claims him.

~*~

As soon as Sherlock has fallen asleep, John eases himself out of bed. He picks his phone up where he left it on the table beside his chair and dials Gerald's number.

"Hello, gorgeous," Gerald says when he answers the phone. "Miss me already?"

"Sherlock is alive," John says, the words coming out breathlessly. They feel so good to say, too.

"What? How?" Gerald asks.

"Remember the criminal I told you about, Moriarty?"

"Yeah."

"Well, apparently he had a sniper on me, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson and people watching the roof of St. Bart's and if they didn't see Sherlock jump, then the snipers had orders to kill us."

"Oh, my god! Are they still out there? Are you safe?" Gerald asks, his voice wobbly.

"I think that's why he's been gone. He’s been working with his brother, that  _bastard_ —Mycroft, not Sherlock—and I guess they've been tracking down all of Moriarty's people. I didn't want to overwhelm him with too many questions. He's um, banged up pretty badly. He said he was captured in Serbia. Looks like he was kept in some kind of compound and wherever he was, they obviously didn't follow the Geneva conventions for the treatment of prisoners. He’s been through hell,” John says, his voice hitching on the last word. Tears come quickly and he tries to quell them, but only manages partly to do so. “For now I have him in my room. He's got a long recovery ahead of him. I'm not going to be able to get out much for a couple of weeks and I'm not sure it's a good idea for him to be around strangers right now. I hate for you and I to be apart for so long, but—”

"Oh, my darling, please don't worry about that. I'm so sorry. Can I help? Is there anything I can do?"

For several moments John can't speak. When, at last, he does, it's with a voice heavy with responsibility.

"Thank you, love," John says, sighing with gratitude. "You are far too good to me."

"Only because you have a big dick," Gerald says and John laughs.

"I think you win the big dick contest, dirty bastard."

"Stop talking about how big my dick is ‘cause you're making my big dick get even bigger."

"What are you, fourteen years old?" John laughs. He's grateful for the laughter and he knows that's why Gerald has done it.

There's silence for a moment as the weight of the truth settles over them.

"How are you feeling about all this, then?" Gerald asks. "I mean, are you—it's quite a feat he's pulled. Are you angry?"

"Yeah, but. I mean, he's  _back_ , Gerald. He's not quite the Sherlock Holmes I knew, but I think that's just because of what he's been through."

"And, uh, your feelings about him, are they—never mind. God, I already sound like a jealous git."

"Oh, Gerald. What I felt for him was so long ago. I've known you for a year and I love you and you have nothing to worry about."

"I know, I know. Just—forget I said anything. I know you love me."

"I do. Very much so. Do you think you can come by tonight—I know it's late—but can you come pick up two prescriptions I wrote for him and drop them off at the chemist's? There's one on your way home that's open all night. I can pick them up tomorrow. I'll need to get some stuff from the shops anyway. I don't have much here for us to eat. You've spoiled me, always cooking."

"I can pick up the prescriptions tomorrow morning and I'll pick up what you need from the shops, too. Write a list for me. I'll grab it when I get there. Okay?"

"Thank you, love," John says.

"For you, darling, anything. I'll see you in a bit, then. Love you."

"Love you, too," John says and ends the call.

He turns around and yelps when he sees Sherlock standing in the kitchen looking slightly dazed.

"Jesus  _Christ_ , Sherlock, you startled me!"

"Who were you talking to?" Sherlock asks flatly, his expression unreadable. He's sweating, and it's soaked through his t-shirt under the arms and across his chest.

"My, uh, my friend," John says. "Here, let's get you into a fresh t-shirt. Come on."

"You left," Sherlock says accusingly. He looks so vulnerable, his face frowning in confusion. Betrayal flashes in his eyes.

"It was just a few minutes, Sherlock. I needed to ask him if he could come by to pick up the scripts I wrote for you. He's going to drop them off at the chemist's. Now, c’mon, let's go get you into a clean t-shirt."

Sherlock allows himself to be led back in the bedroom where John sits him on the bed and then rummages in Sherlock's duffel bag for another t-shirt. Sherlock spreads his legs and John steps in between them without even thinking. He pulls the shirt over Sherlock's head first and then guides Sherlock's arms gently through the sleeves.

The whole time, Sherlock watches him closely, like he's looking for something in John's face he can't find or maybe he sees something he doesn't understand. When Sherlock's arms are through, he doesn't tug the hem down the rest of the way, so John bends and does it for him.

Sherlock's head falls forward onto John's shoulder and then he turns his face into John's neck, his lips pressing against the curve where neck meets shoulder. His arms come up to grasp John who puts his hands on Sherlock's arms, unable to hug back because of the mess of Sherlock's back.

"Sh," John says, rubbing Sherlock's arms up and down. "You're home."

One of Sherlock's hands travels lower and splays against John's back, right above the curve of his backside. The other hand ends up behind John's neck. Sherlock scoots forward on the bed, and John stiffens in his arms.

Sherlock's lips are suddenly resting right behind John's ear.

"I missed you," he whispers.

"I—I missed you, too," John says nervously. "Um, why don't you lie down on your right side here. See if you can get back to sleep?"

"No," Sherlock mumbles.

His lips travel from John's ear down to his jaw, to his throat where they rest against John's carotid.

"Your heart rate is elevated," Sherlock murmurs.

"Well, yes, I'm very—it's, um, good to have you home."

Sherlock seems to accept this explanation at first and pulls back slightly, but only to slide his lips back along John's jaw to his chin where Sherlock's tongue darts out and strokes the dimple in the middle.

John can't help the sharp inhalation of breath, nor the way his heart seems to flutter in his chest, nor the tingling in his fingertips, the warmth that seems to bubble up from his chest, his spine, the tops of his thighs. His groin. Even as John tells his body not to react, Sherlock yanks John against him and John makes a noise that's supposed to be  _stop_ but comes out something like  _stahhh._

For someone who's been malnourished and subjected to torture for a month, Sherlock is surprisingly strong and when John wiggles slightly to get out of his arms, he just tightens his hold. Then Sherlock crashes his lips into John's and the hand that was above his arse slides over it and then grips it,  _squeezes_ it. Desire unfurls low in John's body and blood rushes to fill his prick. He groans, half from pleasure and half from the frustration of not being able to get out of Sherlock's arms without hurting him physically  _and_ emotionally. Clearly, Sherlock is confused, and John needs to convey that ASAP.

But then Sherlock widens his thighs even further and uses the hand cupping John's arse to pull them closer together. John can feel the hard line of Sherlock's erection against his thigh, and Sherlock is almost  _undulating_ himself against John. Sherlock moans against John's lips and before John can form a clear plan of action, Sherlock shoves his tongue into John's mouth.

The kiss—if it can be called a kiss—is sloppy and wet and completely fueled by hunger with no thought for technique. John  hesitates and then kisses him back, knowing he'll regret it. He allows himself sixty seconds to enjoy it.

Because the truth is John wants Sherlock badly. He's known that all along. But John has a boyfriend, a  _partner_ , really, and he can't throw that away for a messy night of snogging with his once-dead best friend. Especially since said best friend is probably a bit tipsy from pain medication and doesn't know what he's doing.

_You can't turn him away now, not when he's so vulnerable_

That's not true, he knows it's not, and he needs to find a way to stop this train wreck. He wrenches his mouth away from Sherlock's.

“Sherlock, I can't,” John says, breathing hard.

Sherlock's hand that was cupping his neck now moves down to cup John's half-hard penis. The touch of Sherlock's hand through the thin fabric of John's pajama bottoms galvanizes John's body into action. In just a few seconds, John is fully hard and Sherlock takes that as invitation to begin stroking John through the fabric. John grips Sherlock's wrist with the thought to pull Sherlock's hand away, but Sherlock isn't budging. The hand that was cupping John's arse slips  _inside_ John's bottoms while John is trying to deal with the hand on his straining erection.

"Jesus,  _fuck_ , Sherlock," John says.

Sherlock grips John tighter and starts stroking up and down through the fabric.

“Does it feel good? I want you to feel good,” Sherlock says, his voice so low it's almost a whisper.

Sherlock sticks a finger in his mouth and licks and sucks on it and then he shoves that hand into the back of John's pajamas and begins rubbing his saliva soaked finger against John's entrance.  

John has moved beyond alarmed and into a sort of horrified arousal. Sherlock suffered sexual assault, and John doesn't want to give Sherlock the impression that he himself feels assaulted, but it's beginning to feel  _exactly_ like that. Unfortunately, John's body is perfectly happy to be assaulted and Sherlock takes that as full consent.

"Sherlock, you're confused. We need to stop," John says, trying to keep his voice calm and steady, and failing miserably.

"I'm not confused. Kiss me," Sherlock demands.

John shakes his head, and keeps it turned away, lest Sherlock's mouth latch onto his again, although the temptation to kiss him is intense. Sherlock kisses John's throat instead and John groans Sherlock's name.

"Sherlock, I don't—this isn't how I—" John whimpers, rapidly losing control over his body.

“Just this once, please, let me have this,” Sherlock says.

Sherlock's forehead rests against John's stomach and he reaches into John's bottoms and his nimble fingers wrap around the base of John's shaft and then slide up. His fingertips tug John's foreskin up and down over his glans before sliding down and then back up again, thumb stroking over the slit, fingers dragging his foreskin back and forth. John knows that if he doesn't intervene soon, he's going to come and this is a problem. This is a  _big_ fucking problem. The scope of this problem is world-ending.

John wraps his hands around Sherlock's biceps and squeezes hard enough that it should hurt, and tries to push Sherlock away, but Sherlock doesn't budge. He doesn't want to  _shove_ Sherlock away, because then he'll land on his back and John is still trying to keep that in mind while also keeping his hips from bucking up into Sherlock's fist while  _also_ keeping his mouth away from Sherlock's mouth.

"Please, Sherlock,  _fuck_ ," John says, digging fingers into the backs of Sherlock's arms.

He doesn't know if he's begging Sherlock to stop or to stroke him harder. It's breathtaking and terrifying all at once. Six hours ago, he didn't even know Sherlock was alive and now Sherlock is giving him a handjob. He kisses Sherlock without even knowing he meant to.

"I know you want to come, John, I can feel it building in your body. Let it go. I want to  _feel_ you come,” Sherlock says in that deep voice made rough with lust, and more than a hint of desperation,

Sherlock's right, about John's orgasm building inside him. Sherlock kisses John again.

"You're  _mine_ ," Sherlock groans into John's throat. "It never should've been him."

Sherlock's voice trembles, his hand slows, and John's orgasm thankfully recedes. Sherlock's voice shivers with vulnerability and the naked longing makes John's throat close up.

"I just need to—" Sherlock continues, his breath catching on the words. "I know I can make you feel—does he make you feel like this? Because I can, too. I know you want me, John. I've known that for two years. I want you to love me, too."

"I  _do_ love you, of course I do, Sherlock, you know that, and yes, I want—I mean you, you're beautiful, you're gorgeous, it's just, this isn't how we should—  _oh, Jesus_ —"

Sherlock ignores John's words and takes up his assault on John's cock again, bringing him with skilled efficiency towards the edge of orgasm and John whispers Sherlock's name, and Sherlock just murmurs the same thing over and over in John's ear.  _Please come for me, John, do it for me. Please come, let me hear it, come, John, please_.

John's no longer using his grip on Sherlock's biceps to push him away and is, instead, holding on for dear life and then Sherlock's thumb circles John's slit, then rubs underneath his glans against the frenulum and John comes. Momentarily color and light burst behind his eyelids, which are squeezed shut, and John thinks of Gerald coming to fetch the prescriptions, of making love to him earlier in this bed, Gerald sweet and pliant beneath him. Sherlock has—has  _commandeered_ John's body, taking without asking just as he always has, and he's done it  _here_ , in the bed John and Gerald have shared and it's not fair because this was never supposed to happen. John made peace with that six months ago standing at Sherlock's grave with an empty baggie in his hand.

All the emotion thickens in John's throat and then bursts from his mouth in a heaving sob. His eyes water and even though he keeps his eyes squeezed shut, a few tears drop onto his cheeks and lips and he's dimly aware of hearing Sherlock say  _I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry_ and then Sherlock lets him go and John stumbles backwards, tucking himself back into his bottoms before he flees the former sanctuary of his bedroom and up the back stairs into his old room where he drops to the edge of the bed, shivering, waiting for Gerald, staring at the wall across the room, fat tears rolling out of his eyes and dripping onto his shaking hands.

~*~

When the buzzer rings, John comes out of his fog with a start. He wipes his face on the hem of his t-shirt and makes sure there's no semen on his hands or bottoms. Then he rushes down the outside stairs to the front door and pulls it open.

"Oh, my sweet boy, you look absolutely  _shattered_ ," Gerald says with sympathy.

John feels like his infidelity is burned onto his skin and clothes, that Gerald should be able to smell it on him, and braces for a slap. But instead, Gerald just cups John's face and kisses his cheek.

"Do you have the list? And the prescriptions?" Gerald asks.

"The prescriptions?" John asks, his brain hazy. "Oh, God, let me get them. Do you want to come up?"

"No, best stay here for now," Gerald says with a smile and tilts his head towards the window of the first floor. John steps out onto the pavement and sees Sherlock standing at the front window, watching them. He doesn't bother moving away when he sees them looking up and Gerald gives him a friendly little wave and John's heart fractures into a thousand pieces, the pain leaving him gasping.

"I'll just stay right inside the door. Go on, then, the meter's ticking," Gerald says and gives him a pointed look before playfully smacking John's rear.

John doesn't want to see Sherlock so he goes up the stairs to the kitchen door, grabs the prescriptions off the table. Then he's back down the stairs to the entryway and handing them to Gerald.

"I'll have to text you the list of the stuff I need from the shops, I didn't have a chance—I've not—"

"That's fine, sweetheart. I'll drop it all off around noon. So have it to me by say, ten tomorrow morning? Good. Love you!"

With a kiss on the cheek, Gerald is gone, climbing into the cab and shutting the door. John closes the front door and locks it. Then he works his way slowly, reluctantly, up the stairs to the flat. He pauses on the landing outside the sitting room but then, because he just can't, he  _cannot_ face any more today, he is just  _done the fuck in_ , he keeps going up the stairs to his old room. He digs a fitted sheet and blanket out of the closet, smelling dusty, but clean and makes up the bed. He turns off the overhead light and then slips into bed in the dark, knowing he's not going to be able to sleep, not after all that's happened.

He drops almost instantly to sleep, his mind a ruin.


	12. Confused

 

**Friday, 22 March 2013**

_Danilo holds the gun against Sherlock's chin and then slides it towards his mouth. He presses the gun against Sherlock's lip hard enough to cut it and Sherlock tastes blood._

_"Do you have a lover back home, British? Do you like sucking his cock? I bet you get a wet dick every time you think of it. Here, I have a cock for you to suck," he says and presses the gun into Sherlock's mouth._

_Sherlock tastes blood, gun oil, and metal and smells the sweat of Danilo's body. His head is almost completely shaved and Sherlock notices the strands of gray amongst the dark blond strands. He thinks of John and then pushes that thought deep into the back of his mind palace. The last thing he wants is John to be touched by this disgusting place, this disgusting man._

_Danilo bends towards Sherlock like he's going to tell him a secret._

_"Suck it good, faggot, or I'll fuck you with it."_

_So, Sherlock does the only thing he can—he fellates the gun._

_"You don't sound like you're enjoying that, British! I want to hear you moan. Why don't you touch yourself, too? Show me you love it."_

_Sherlock closes his eyes and when he opens them he sees John standing above him._

_"No, not here!" Sherlock moans. He doesn't want John in this dirty prison with him!_

_Then Sherlock realizes they're not in the prison anymore. Sherlock is sitting on John's bed in his room on the second floor. John is kneeling between his thighs._

_"Like this," John whispers and wraps his mouth around Sherlock's penis, which is fully hard. Sherlock thrusts into John's mouth with a grunt._

_"I'm sorry!" he cries, worried he's hurt John with his thoughtless act._

_"I want to hear you come," John says, even though his mouth is currently full of Sherlock's penis._

_"I can't," Sherlock moans. "It's wrong. You're not supposed to touch yourself like that."_

_Sherlock's not sure where that came from because he can't remember anyone ever telling him he couldn't touch himself. In fact, his parents enthusiastically encouraged a mortified Sherlock to "learn what arouses you." He remembers Mycroft laughing when he heard the story._

_Mycroft doesn't laugh, though, so who's laughter does he hear?_

_John's hands are sliding over his naked back and his lips are pressed against Sherlock's. This time, John kisses him on purpose instead of just putting up with Sherlock's assault on him._

_"I shouldn't have done that," Sherlock says to John, who's now standing above him._

_"Take off your clothes," John says._

_"My clothes are off," Sherlock replies, confused._

_"You're naked, but you're not transparent," John says and he looks angry. In fact, his face is beginning to turn red. He's enraged. "I told you not to lie to me! All you do is lie!"_

_"No, that's not true! I love you, John! I wanted you to see me as a man and not as something broken and fragile."_

_"Oh, Sherlock," John says, his voice sounding tender. "You've always been broken and fragile. That's why I love you."_

_"I don't understand," Sherlock says, pleading._

_John backhands him, his eyes so hateful. Sherlock's eyes squeeze shut in defense and when he opens them again, it's not John, but Danilo._

_"Stupid British," Danilo says, with a malicious sneer. "You're never going home to John. You're mine now."_

_Sherlock splinters into a broken image of himself, but he hears John somewhere behind Danilo and he lets his heart hope. John says, it's just a night—_

"—mare, Sherlock, wake up!"

Sherlock's eyes fly open and he lifts his head. He's lying on his side, his hands balled into a fist. He lets out a tremulous sigh that turns into a sob when he sees that he really  _is_ home, in his bedroom, at 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock," John says quietly and Sherlock pushes himself carefully to his knees to see John kneeling next to the bed. John moves to take his hands and Sherlock grips them so hard, he can see John wince.

" _John_ ," Sherlock says. In his mouth, the name is a lament and he loosens his hold on John's hands so he can cradle John's head in his hands. He brings their foreheads together and repeats John's name over and over until the nightmare begins to ease out of his bones. John reaches up to cup his cheeks and he murmurs  _it's okay, you're okay, I'm right here, I'm not leaving, you're safe_.

John's breath is sour and Sherlock thinks  _morning breath_.

"I woke you," Sherlock says hoarsely. They're still holding onto each other, heads pressed together.

"It's okay," John says and Sherlock knows it's not a platitude—he genuinely means it.

"Are you in pain?" John asks.

Sherlock does a body check and discovers that, yes, actually, he's in a great deal of pain. "Yes," he says and smiles wanly.

John helps Sherlock stand. "I'll go get your pain pills. You're soaked in sweat. Do you want to change your clothes?"

"I can't do it—I need help with my shirt. My shoulder and elbow," he says and his eyes slide away, not wanting to meet John's.

"I'll help you, let me just get your pain pills and I'll be back."

Sherlock looks up in surprise at John's retreating back. He didn't think John would want to help him get dressed ( _undressed_ ) considering what happened last night. Was it even last night? Sherlock looks around the room and sees an alarm clock on the bedside table. It's 5:34 a.m.

Sherlock moves slowly over to his duffel bag, which John left on the settee last night. He picks through it for a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. He wants out of these fleece bottoms because they're hot. Underneath, he can feel his pants are soaked in sweat. He doesn't bother pulling a fresh pair of pants out of his bag. The less clothing he has to wear, the less he has to depend on John to get him dressed and undressed (and the less opportunity he has to do what he did last night.)

Speaking of last night, what did it mean? John has a tendency to treat uncomfortable situations in which he is involved as though they didn't happen. When it involves other people, though, he can gossip like a little old lady.

"Here we go," John says, coming back into the room with a glass of water and two of the pain pills. These are the ones John has from his med kit and not the ones from the doctors at the British embassy.

Sherlock obediently swallows the pills and then he puts the pajama bottoms and t-shirt on the bed.

"I was thinking," John says, eyeballing the t-shirt and pajamas as though he's afraid they might jump out and bite him. "It might be easier if you were to wear a button down shirt. It would make it easier to get in and out of your shirt and give you some independence. You'd have to leave the cuffs unbuttoned because of your wrist, but you could roll up the sleeves. It won't be very fashionable wearing a button down with pajama bottoms, but, um, I'm sure you don't want me having to dress and undress you all the time."

John tries for a smile, and when that fails, rubs his hand along the back of his head.

"Okay," Sherlock says because what he wants to say is,  _I want you to spend the rest of our lives undressing me!_

"I'll need to go upstairs and drag some of your clothes out of storage so for now, let's just get you into your pajama bottoms. Do you think you can sleep without a t-shirt on for now? I'd really like you to go back to sleep."

"I don't think I can," Sherlock says. "Go back to sleep, that is."

"I want you to try," John responds. He tilts his head in a way that Sherlock long ago learned strongly implied  _or else_. John's Captain Watson persona shouldn't be arousing to Sherlock—someone who never follows orders as a matter of principle, even if said order is to his benefit—but it is. Sherlock remembers Baskerville and John pulling rank on the young soldier.  _That's an order, Corporal_. Sherlock had looked askance at him, and experienced one of the first moments of desire that left him breathless.

John helps Sherlock out of his t-shirt and then puts his dressing gown around his shoulders and helps him stand. John pulls Sherlock's bottoms and pants down at the same time. Sherlock's hands are on John's shoulders. His desire to run his hands through John's hair is so strong that his jaw is clenched with the effort of resisting.

While he forces himself not to touch John, John has Sherlock's bottoms up in no time at all.

"Do you need my help lying down?" John asks when he gets back to his feet.

"No, I, uh, I need to use the loo," Sherlock says. John opens his mouth, but Sherlock cuts him off. "I can manage on my own."

"I'll wait here until you're done," John says.

Sherlock makes his way to the  _en suite_ and gingerly removes the wad of gauze between his arse cheeks. He needs to replace it but he doesn't know how he can get to the kitchen and find the gauze without John noticing.

He examines the gauze. It's wet with sweat and slightly pink with watery discharge. The doctor told him to expect it. Suddenly, Sherlock freezes. He'd forgotten about the medical brief. The last Sherlock saw, it was sitting on the kitchen table and John hadn't yet read it.

Sherlock pulls his pajama bottoms up as quickly as he can with a sprained wrist and broken elbow then uses the other door to shuffle into the kitchen. He grabs the brief and finds a roll of gauze as well. His heart is pounding, but he feels a surge of victory when he makes it into the loo before John sees. He uses the toilet, folds up another wad of gauze and puts it between his cheeks, then pulls his bottoms up and washes his hands. He hides the folder under the sink behind the plunger and a box of baking soda. The gauze he puts on the top shelf of the linen closet. He would kill for a proper shower.

He opens the door back to the bedroom to see John sitting on his bed deep in thought.

"Hey," John says, jumping to his feet. "Do you need help getting in bed?"

"There's a bag of toiletries in my duffel bag. Can you get it for me? I want to brush my teeth."

John grabs it and hands it to Sherlock, but doesn't immediately let go.

"You can take a shower and shave later, but for now I want you to go back to sleep. You're going to get at least eight hours of sleep a night for the next month, maybe longer."

John smiles uncertainly, and Sherlock nods before turning to the loo door.

~*~

After Sherlock brushes his teeth, John helps him get back into bed on his side. Sherlock looks sleepy, which is good. Tonight, John will give him five milligrams of melatonin, sublingually, and that will help keep him on a regular sleeping schedule. It feels almost like caring for an infant the way he's worked out eating and sleeping schedules.

John won't be going back to sleep. Once he wakes up, he's up for the day, so he quietly pulls clean clothes out of his dresser and wardrobe and then sneaks out of the bedroom. He has things to do this morning, so an early start gives him time to relax before his busy day begins. John showers, keeping as quiet as possible so as not to wake Sherlock. Then he goes into the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea.

As he's waiting for the kettle to click off, John thinks of Gerald at home alone in his bed and there's a sudden spike of pain in his chest. He misses Gerald, terribly. Most of all, Gerald would be able to advise him on what to do with Sherlock, on how to handle the—whatever it was—that happened between them last night.

John takes his tea and sits down at the kitchen table to drink it, staring off into space. He has yesterday's paper spread out before him, but he's not reading it. He's remembering every detail of last night (and trying not to get hard while he's at it.)

_I missed you_.

_Does it feel good? I want you to feel good._

Last night, he hadn't really paid attention to anything Sherlock was saying. His body, and therefore his mind, were entirely focused on what Sherlock was  _doing_. (With his hands and his lips and his fingers,  _oh god_.) He tries to recall the  _words_ Sherlock spoke.

It all comes back in a roar.

_I'm not confused. Kiss me._

_Just this once, please, let me have this._

_You're mine. It never should've been him._

Just like that, John knows what last night was really about. He didn't think his heart could break into any more pieces, but knowing what Sherlock was really trying to tell him just about does him in. Tears flood his eyes.

Sherlock, away from home for eighteen months, the last month spent being tortured, comes home to find his best friend in a very serious relationship with someone. Sherlock, needing the comfort of home,  _needing_ John, is worried that John won't have time for him any more, maybe that John will move out. So he does the only thing he can think of. He tries to seduce John to make him stay.

_Does he make you feel like this? Because I can, too._

_I know you want me, John._

_I want you to love me, too._

Sherlock was trying to tell him that whatever Gerald gives John, Sherlock can give it, too, because he was counting on having John's full attention when he came back. He was counting on the security and comfort that John has always given him.

Sherlock was willing to seduce John in order to keep their friendship intact. He's confused right now and desperate to maintain the  _status quo_ and the  _status quo_ is John, unattached. John can just imagine what was going through Sherlock's head.  _If it's sex you need, John, I'll give you sex, but please don't abandon me because of him_.

John doesn't know if his heartbreak is because Sherlock felt he  _had_ to do that to keep John's friendship or if it's because Sherlock still only sees him as a friend.

John grabs his pad of paper and a pen and starts writing his list for things he needs Gerald to pick up. The embassy doctors gave Sherlock ten days of an antibiotic because of all the open wounds. It's the same thing John would have prescribed. The anti-fungal, antibiotic creams, and lidocaine is fine so John won't need to change any of those.

One of the prescriptions John gave Gerald for Sherlock is for 2 mg clonazepam that dissolves on the tongue and is, therefore, quick acting. The other prescription was for 5 mg liquid melatonin to be administered sublingually. That, too, is quick acting.

As he told Sherlock the day before, John's responsibility extends beyond just treating his injuries—John has taken on the responsibility for Sherlock's health. There are many things John has thought of that he needs to restore Sherlock to health, including helping him gain weight. John starts writing things down.

 

~*~

At precisely eight a.m., John gets a phone call from Mycroft.

"Hello, John," he says when John answers the phone.

"You're a bastard, Mycroft Holmes!" John hisses, trying not to yell because Sherlock is still sleeping.

"I do apologize for the dishonesty, John. It was necessary."

"Whatever. I'm too tired to be mad," John says. "What do you want?"

"Is my brother with you?"

"Um,  _yeah_. I thought you sent him here?"

"No, I meant, is he  _in the room_ with you. In other words, can he overhear our conversation?"

"No, he's still sleeping."

"Good. I wanted to be able to speak to you privately. Firstly, I never intended to put the onus of caring for my brother on your shoulders, so I would like to verify that you are indeed willing to act as his doctor until his wounds are healed?"

"Of course I am, you cockhead. You think I'm going to send him off for someone else to treat?"

"I'm asking because there are nursing services that can help with the burden of aftercare for his wounds."

"I think we'll be fine."

"That's a relief to hear." Mycroft pauses and then clears his throat. "What has he told you about the time he spent imprisoned in Serbia?"

"Nothing really. His wounds pretty much told me what happened."

"Ah. Well." There's another pause. "As a sufferer of post-traumatic stress disorder, I'm sure you realize my brother will likely experience many of the same symptoms you had."

"Yes, Mycroft. I'm a doctor, not an idiot. Get to your point. Why did you call me?"

"I believe my brother would benefit from the help of a therapist, but he's stubbornly refusing. He listens to you."

"You've always been under the mistaken impression that I can make Sherlock do something he doesn't want to do," John says with a tired laugh. "He never listens to me."

"On the contrary, John. I think you'll find that when it comes to  _you_ , my brother will do anything."

John pauses at that. Finally, he says, "I'll talk to him."

"Thank you, John," Mycroft says, obvious relief in his voice.

"You're still on my shit list, you know," John points out.

"I wouldn't expect any less from you," Mycroft replies.


	13. Frustration

After he gets off the phone with Mycroft, John goes upstairs and sorts through the boxes of Sherlock's things he and Mrs. Hudson kept. He brings out four of the oldest button-down shirts he can find, ones he thinks Sherlock won't mind being stained by the greasy anti-fungal cream. While he's there he grabs the seven pairs of pajama bottoms he finds, as well as several pairs of cashmere socks.

Loaded down with clothes, he goes downstairs and dumps everything on top of the kitchen table. He checks in his bedroom and is pleased to see that Sherlock is sleeping, and, then, remembering the medical brief, sneaks in to search through Sherlock's duffel bag but finds nothing but clothes. Maybe it fell on the kitchen floor under the table and John's just been too deep in thought to notice?

So, he goes into the kitchen and searches under the table and chairs, the worktops, and the small attached breakfast table where they keep the microwave. John digs through every place he thinks it could be, and then in all the places it couldn't possibly be. When he opens the cabinet under the bathroom sink and sees the edge of the fat tan folder behind the loo cleaner, his head drops forward into his hands. John knows exactly what it means when Sherlock hides things from him. There's something in this folder he doesn't want John to know, something he thinks will make him appear weak. With dread, John extracts the file and takes it into the kitchen to read.

~*~

Sherlock sleeps until mid-afternoon, and when he shuffles out of the bedroom, it only takes one look at John's face to know that he's read the brief, that he knows what happened to Sherlock in Serbia. Sherlock's vibrating with a combination of anger and shame. He'd almost gotten away with it. Of course, hiding the brief was very childish, but he was desperate.

"Why didn't you want to tell me?" John asks gently. "You promised you wouldn't lie to me."

"Don't—" Sherlock spits out. "Don't you fucking dare feel sorry for me!"

Sherlock rarely curses. He thinks it indicates a lack of imagination. So, when Sherlock uses a curse word it makes a big impact. Sherlock is happy to see that John's eyes are open wide in astonishment. He looks on the verge of saying something so Sherlock decides to just get it over with.

"When I arrived at the embassy infirmary, I had an anal abscess as a result of an anal fissure received during my imprisonment. It was drained and stitched with dissolvable sutures. I saw no point in embarrassing both of us by having you check between my arse cheeks to see that it was healing properly when I myself am perfectly capable of caring for it. That is all."

Sherlock wants to stand up and walk off, but his body hurts and now his heart does, too. If John hasn't connected the dots yet, he will eventually and then whatever plans Sherlock had for his relationship with John will go out the window.

Sherlock stands carefully, about to head for his— _John's, it's John's now—_ bedroom, but John stands up much quicker and moves to block Sherlock.

"I want to know what happened," John says.

"It's really none of your business, John," Sherlock says spitefully. 

"I know the words  _we need to talk_ are ominous, but we do need to talk. I want to help you."

"You can't help me with everything," Sherlock says. His heart is racing. He rubs his hand over his mouth and wipes sweat off his upper lip. Now that he’s noticed it, he feels the dampness of perspiration everywhere.

"You don't know that," John says, leaning against the wall separating the kitchen from the sitting room. He looks down at his feet and Sherlock waits for him to speak. Finally, John says, "Look, Sherlock, I'm your friend, yeah?" John stops abruptly and then scrubs his hands over his face.

"Yes," Sherlock says.  _So much more, John, so much more_.

"The thing is," John says and stops again. "I know we're men, and British men in particular don't like talking about their feelings, but you and I—we've lived on the edge of death together, Sherlock. After all that we've been through, do you really not trust me?"

"I trust you completely, John," Sherlock answers truthfully. "It's not your trustworthiness in question on this matter."

"Then what is?" John asks, glaring at Sherlock with pursed lips.

"I don't want you to see me as broken. Damaged.  _Fragile_. I'm still a fully functioning man with the same brilliant mind I've always had. I know you and you would handle me with delicacy, like I might break. I don't want that."

"Sherlock, whether you want to admit it or not, you  _are_ broken. And damaged. And fragile." John walks closer until he's standing right over Sherlock. "Physically and emotionally you are damaged and fragile. That's  _why_ I want so badly to help you. I  _know_ the man you are and I want to help you bring that man back. Will you, please-- Sherlock, no more secrets. Right?"

Sherlock feels his stomach drop even though he knew this was coming. In the kitchen, the kettle clicks off, but John ignores it.

"Hm," Sherlock says noncommittally, his expression pained. He shifts his eyes to the side and shrugs.

John gets a chair from the desk and brings it up right next to Sherlock's. He sits down and lays his hand on Sherlock's left forearm and squeezes it gently and Sherlock feels his defenses breaking down. He opens his mouth to say something like  _stop coddling me_ , but what comes out is a confession. He tells John everything—about the abuse, the deprivation, the box, the rapes—all of it except Zivko.

There's silence for a few moments and then John asks about Zivko, his thumb rubbing soothing circles along the inside of Sherlock's forearm. There's a patch of the fungal infection on Sherlock's right thigh and it's itching like mad, a counterpoint to the soothing movement of John's thumb. Sherlock surreptitiously scratches at it with the binding around his wrist. He takes a deep breath and lets it out.

"The second time I was raped was by a young guard. He didn't want to do it, but the other guards had locked us in a room and said we couldn't leave until he fucked me. He was a virgin and he wasn't gay—he wasn't even—" Sherlock stops before he starts crying.

"They forced him to rape you," John clarifies.

Sherlock nods. "The head guard, Danilo, was behind it all. He hated Zivko, was jealous of him because he had a famous father—his famous father who, incidentally, ran a human trafficking ring--who had given Zivko the guard duty in that hellhole _._

"And that fucking piece of  _shit_ guard, the one who raped me—it wasn't enough to humiliate Zivko by making him fuck a prisoner. He got all the other guards fired up about nepotism in the army. They were afraid of him and Zivko was an easy target.

"Danilo raped me again two weeks after Zivko and that's when he—he caused the anal fissure. A week later I found out Zivko had committed suicide. Four days after that, Mycroft was able to pull me out of Serbia. Zivko was only sixteen, John."

"Oh, Sherlock," John whispers.

He replaces his right hand on Sherlock's forearm with his left and then reaches his right hand up and puts it on the back of Sherlock's neck, his fingertips tracing little lines on his back.

"But I'm grateful he killed himself, John," Sherlock says, gritting his teeth against the tears piling up in his throat. "I don't want to be glad, but I am. I would've died there. I'm so relieved to be out of there, but a boy  _died_ for my freedom. "

"He didn't die  _for_ your freedom, Sherlock. And you're not  _glad_ he died, just because you're glad to be home."

"I fail to see the difference," Sherlock says, his tears momentarily on hold while he gears himself up for an argument.

"Being glad to be home doesn't automatically mean you're glad he died. Event A—his suicide—resulted in Event B. Your rescue. Could you have helped him?"

"I—I didn't—I  _hated_ being helpless! I hated watching  _grown men_ bullying this boy and not being able to do  _anything_ to help him because it meant drawing their attention to me. I was weak."

Sherlock drops his head into his hands and weeps. John's fingers card through his hair. John murmurs  _sh_ and  _it's gonna be okay_ and  _I know_. Sherlock knows they're meaningless words, the kinds of things people say when someone is bawling like a child, and he would've found them ridiculous eighteen months ago. Now, though, he takes great comfort in this soothing litany of meaningless words. It's not the words themselves that matter because they all mean the same thing—  _I'm right here with you._


	14. Adjustment

**Friday, 22 March 2013**

Mycroft makes an appearance at 221B Friday evening to inquire after Sherlock's health and see how he and John are faring, but he's not there just for that. There's the matter of managing Sherlock's return from the dead.

"It should be obvious your return needs to be treated with the utmost secrecy until the Commissioner of New Scotland Yard is willing to issue a public rebuttal of their condemnation of you eighteen months ago. I don't want the press getting wind of your rise from the dead and dragging out the old articles claiming you were a fraud. When you officially return from the dead, I want it to be on the heels of the Met's  _mea culpa_ , especially the Chief Superintendent whose nose John kindly broke."

Sherlock and John share a smile, remembering that night, handcuffed together and on the run from the police. When Sherlock had taken John's hand, after John had said  _now people will really talk_ , Sherlock had wanted to say  _then let's give them something juicy to talk about_ and then press John up against the brick wall at their back and kiss him with every bit of joy from their life together and every bit of anguish from what was to come—Sherlock had known even then that he would have to jump if Moriarty forced his hand, but in that moment, it was the two of them against the world.

It remains a bittersweet memory for Sherlock and John must see the sadness in his eyes even through Sherlock's smile, because he tilts his head, and it's only by the slight furrow between his eyes that John is questioning what he sees.  _Are you okay?_ Sherlock nods.

Then Mycroft clears his throat and the two of them turn to face him again. Mycroft opens a leather folder. "I've kept in touch with Gregory Lestrade while you were away. Despite being demoted to Detective Sergeant, he's remarkably loyal to you." Mycroft lifts his eyes and flicks them to John before looking back down at his notes. "He, in turn, has officers loyal to  _him_ , one of whom has kept him informed on the progress of the audit, which was completed two months ago. I've been trying to influence the Met, through subtle means, of course, to clear your name publicly, but they're dragging their feet.

"Greg informed me last year that he trained under Deputy Assistant Commissioner Ofelia Robbins twenty years ago, when she was a Chief Inspector and he a lowly Constable. Robbins is well liked and sympathetic to our cause, and with her help, we may be able to convince the majority of the upper echelon of New Scotland Yard that you are not a fraud, since they seem determined to believe it, even though the only mistakes found during the audit of your cases were  _theirs_." Mycroft sniffs imperiously before continuing. "It's not enough, however, for them to simply  _retract_  their spurious claims. It's imperative that we get an endorsement in  _addition_  to their apology, before the world finds out you're alive. As I said, the press will have a field day if they find out you're alive. Not only will they drag out all the old articles damning you as a fraud, but they'll add cowardice to your list of sins, and then it won't matter what New Scotland Yard says or doesn't say—the damage to your reputation will be done. We need to convince them to hold a press conference during which a person of significant authority in the Metropolitan Police explains the parameters of the audit and the fact that you are, as they say, the  _real deal_. And then we reveal  _you_ , dear brother, alive and vindicated.  _That's_  our goal. For now, while Greg and I work on that, I need you two to  _stay out of trouble_."

Mycroft favors each of them with a glare in turn, looking like nothing so much as a stern headmaster lecturing his two favorite, but most troublesome, pupils.

"Now, I understand there are people we  _must_ tell, but the fewer people who know, the easier this will be and trust me—we are in an uphill battle here. It is  _imperative_ that you do not leave the flat, Sherlock."

"What if it catches fire?" Sherlock asks. The subtextual animosity of their relationship before Sherlock went away is gone, but Sherlock is still a little brother and little brothers are hard-wired to annoy older brothers.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Only if your life is actually threatened."

"I'll tie him to the bed," John offers with a grin, which disappears when he sees the look in Mycroft's eyes. "Sorry," John mutters.

"Not at all," Sherlock says, coming to his defense. "Mycroft, John has taken perfect care of me. Don't threaten him."

Mycroft looks down at his notes, not deigning to answer. "Mrs. Hudson will need to be told. Have you thought of the best way to tell her that won't involve her shrieking the news to half the neighborhood?"

John jumps to answer before Sherlock can form his reply. "I think we should wait until tomorrow. Let Sherlock get settled in."

"How do you plan to keep her out of the flat?" Sherlock scoffs. "She's baking those scones you love. Can't you smell it?"

"I think we can keep her at bay for at least twenty-four hours, Sherlock," John says with an annoyed air. "I'll answer the door in nothing but my pants and tell her Gerald is waiting for me in bed. She'll shove them in my hand and run for her flat."

This time, it's Sherlock's eyes who show murder.

"Right," John mutters, quickly beginning to feel like he's hindering the proceedings more than helping.

"If you're confident you can put her off until tomorrow, John, then I'll leave it to you to give her the good news."

Mycroft looks down at his notes and turns one of the pages over, but Sherlock is surprised to see it's a stalling tactic. Mycroft needs to say something he thinks will distress one of them.

"Just spit it out, Mycroft," Sherlock says impatiently.

Mycroft looks up and fixes his gaze on John, "I would prefer that your friend remain in the dark about Sherlock."

"My  _friend?_ " John asks, more defensive than what is warranted. "You know very well Gerald isn't some casual acquaintance, Mycroft. You've known that for almost a year."

"You told him," Mycroft says flatly.

"Yeah, I have. We spend almost all our time together! How else was I supposed to explain why I'm stuck at home for the next week or so?"

Sherlock's temper flares at John's words. " _Stuck at home?_ ” Sherlock repeats coolly. “If being my doctor is so disagreeable to you, then perhaps you should find somewhere else to live for the foreseeable future. I'm sure your  _boyfriend_ will be pleased to have you stay with him."

"Oh, c'mon, Sherlock, you know I didn't mean it li—"

"I wasn't aware that the phrase  _stuck at home_ actually had a positive connotation," Sherlock snarls. He glowers at John, but John crosses his arms and refuses to acknowledge him.

"Gentlemen, please," Mycroft says. "The important thing is that you impart to Gerald that the knowledge of Sherlock's return needs to be handled with absolute secrecy."

John gets up from his chair at the sitting room desk. "You know, Mycroft, I wouldn't be quite so insulted if you spoke English rather than Posh Public School Arsehole," John growls. " _Hey, John, tell Gerald not to tell anyone else_. I forget that the two of you think I'm a sodding idiot, ta so much."

With that, John stalks to his bedroom and slams the door.

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak.

"Don't even start," Sherlock mutters.

Mycroft's eyes drop to his lap, and he takes a moment to brush imaginary lint off his trousers. When he finally speaks, his voice is too low for John to hear. "What happened last night?"

"That's none of your business," Sherlock snaps, before turning his head to face the mantle, his heart battering against the cage of his ribs. There's something heavy and painful settling in his throat and stomach.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says gently. "If you put him in the position of being unfaithful to his boyfriend, he'll resent you for it."

"He's perfectly capable of saying no, Mycroft," Sherlock mumbles without his usual vitriol.

"I'm not sure he  _is_ where you're concerned," Mycroft says.

Sherlock keeps his face turned away. "I've confessed my love and it doesn't seem to have changed anything. What else can I do?"

"You  _wait_. Yesterday afternoon, he thought you were dead. It's only been twenty-four hours since you returned from the dead. Give him a chance to adjust." Mycroft sits back in his chair before speaking again. "What did he say when you—as you so quaintly put it—confessed your love?"

"He said lots of things, none of which were  _I'm in love with you, too_ ," Sherlock says, his voice tremulous.

"I know it's hard to wait when you've already spent so long waiting, Sherlock, but you both need time. You need time to heal and he needs time to adjust."

"How long am I supposed to wait? A week, a month? How do I protect myself in the meantime? What if he doesn't feel—"

Sherlock stops speaking, playing the conversation from this morning over in his head.

_Well, you know, you're very attractive and before you left I'd had feelings about you, I thought I did, at any rate, but then you died and—_

Sherlock's emotions have been changeable and frustratingly overwhelming since his rescue, part of the fallout of his ordeal in Serbia. This morning, he felt full of confidence; now, not as much. Is it possible he misinterpreted John's feelings? But then why would John have asked for time?  _I can't make a decision that will affect three people so much when you've only been home for twenty-four hours_.

"—lock!" Mycroft hisses.

"Sorry, I—" It's several more seconds before Sherlock speaks again. "I'm tired, Mycroft. I need to lie down."

"Of course," Mycroft says, standing. "I'll just get John."

In a panic, Sherlock pushes himself to his feet and lunges for Mycroft's sleeve. "No! Leave him be. I'm perfectly capable of taking my medication and putting myself to bed."

"Very well," Mycroft says, looking dubious. "Then I'll see you tomorrow evening."

"Yes, fine," Sherlock says, and walks into the kitchen, leaving Mycroft to see himself out.

~*~

Sherlock takes his antibiotic, four ibuprofen, and the melatonin John prescribed, and is about to make his way upstairs to John's old room (and what is now Sherlock's new one) when John comes out of his bedroom, looking rumpled and exhausted.

"John, I'm—" Sherlock starts, but John just shakes his head.

"It's fine, Sherlock," John says, his voice low and quiet. "Let me get your medicine."

"I already took it," Sherlock says.

John raises his head, looking surprised. "Oh, okay. Well, um. If you're ready for bed, I can—" John stops, gesturing over his shoulder at his bedroom door.

"I'll sleep upstairs," Sherlock says. "You need your rest as well."

"I'd rather you slept down here."

"I realize that, but I need to get less dependent on you as I heal, not more."

"Look, if this is about what I said—"

"Oh, for  _Christ's_ sake, John, it's not all about you!" Sherlock snaps and immediately regrets his outburst.

John opens his mouth to say something rude, but then his eyes flick down Sherlock's body, and Sherlock sees the moment he remembers what's happened and decides to bite back his retort. Sherlock goes from contrite to furious in the quarter of a second it takes him to read the pity in John's eyes.

"In fact, I'd prefer it if you would stick to being my doctor and not my nursemaid," Sherlock says, looking down his nose at John.

John's nostrils flare. "Yeah, all right. Sheets and pillows are in the linen closet there. Good night."

~*~

**Saturday, 23 March 2013**

The next day, John goes over Sherlock's injuries with clinical professionalism. John is still angry and Sherlock, though regretful, reverts to his usual way of handling negative emotions—pretending he doesn't care and acting like a Posh Public School Arsehole, as John called it (rather cleverly, in Sherlock's opinion).

Afterwards, he descends to the ground floor to break the news of Sherlock's resurrection to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock can hear her wail of joy all the way upstairs and then the  _clack clack_ of her kitten heels on the stairs. She bursts into the room, her makeup streaked with tears while her eyes continue to flood with more. She covers her mouth with both hands and Sherlock stands up gingerly. She starts to rush to Sherlock, and John shouts out  _mind his injuries and be gentle_ , but she only cups Sherlock's face between her hands and stares, a joyous smile on her lips and eyes that continually well up and over, then down her cheek.

"Oh, my darling boy," Mrs. Hudson says softly. "Oh, my darling, sweet boy. This is the single most joyful day of my life."

Sherlock allows her to cup the nape of his neck and press his head down on her shoulder. (She almost has to reach up on tippy toes to do it, but the heels on her shoes give her the extra height she needs.) Much to his dismay, Sherlock finds his own eyes watering.

When she lets go, she turns into a different Mrs. Hudson—the one who can give Sherlock Holmes a tongue lashing that sees his head bowing in contrition like a naughty child. (The only person who can do that in addition to his mother.).

"Sherlock Holmes! How dare you leave us behind to think you were dead!" She jerks her thumb in John's direction. "And  _this_ one! He grieved day after day, trying so hard to keep going with you gone. I don't mind telling you there were a few times I worried for him. He was absolutely inconsolable for  _weeks_! And the  _nightmares_! Every—"

"Okay, Mrs. Hudson, I think he gets it," John interjects before she can reveal any other embarrassing secrets from those terrible first months of grief.

" _You_ and your  _brother_ ," Mrs. Hudson, barely stifled, continues. "So secretive and always plotting. Shame on you for leaving us behind to think you were dead! I intend to have a word with your mother—please tell me you've told  _her_ you're still alive! I can't  _imagine_ —poor Violet! Grieving the loss of her baby boy for eighteen months! And you her favorite! It's not right, Sherlock. I don't care what reason you have—"

"It was to keep you safe—"

"Oh, you can just take your excuses and, and—I mean,  _really_ , Sherlock! You can't tell me that there wasn't one person in the entirety of the British Secret Service who couldn't have taken on the tasks of finding these people who were threatening our lives?"

"Of course, but I had to stay out of sight until every single one of Moriarty's operatives was sussed out and detained. My options were either hiding out in the countryside slowly going insane or going along on the missions. I made my decision in part because I didn't trust myself to, well—to stay away."

At this Sherlock looks up at John, who's looking back at him with hooded eyes and an unreadable expression.

"Well, that's what you get for messing around with psychopathic criminal overlords, now isn't it? I hope you've learned your lesson!"

Sherlock chuckles and then holds a big grin on his face. He bends his head and kisses Mrs. Hudson's cheek. "You are wonderful, Mrs. Hudson, and I'm so glad you and John had each other while I was away."

Mrs. Hudson pats his cheek, mollified. "I suppose I can forgive you, you  _infuriating_ boy. John, put the kettle on and then come downstairs with me. Last night I made some of those currant scones you like so much and you can bring them up here and have them with a cuppa."

John glances at Sherlock and smiles and Sherlock feels a relief so powerful, it staggers him. Mrs. Hudson leaves after one last kiss to Sherlock's cheek. John obediently goes into the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

"I'll be back," John says.

"It's so tedious when you state the obvious," Sherlock huffs, then berates himself for being rude so soon after being forgiven by John.

" _You infuriating boy_!" John says in mimicry of Mrs. Hudson. He purses his lips like she does, and manages to puff himself up to look highly indignant. He walks out of the flat with a hand pressed to his breast in almost perfect imitation of a disapproving Mrs. Hudson but not before tossing a grin over his shoulder that Sherlock finds devastatingly sexy.

"Oh, John," Sherlock groans, and drops his head into his hands.

~*~

**Sunday, 24 March 2013**

The next morning, John gets two texts from Rebecca and Bernie, which he answers as tersely as he can. Apparently, they're not reassured, because he gets two  _more_ texts from Rebecca. He says the same thing, but a little more firmly and turns his phone to vibrate. It sits in his pocket, buzzing angrily until, miserable with frustration, John stuffs it down between the seat cushion and arm of his chair.

He checks it before bed to find he has five missed calls. He listens to his voicemail, tempted to leave it, but knowing if Rebecca and Bernie aren't given some incentive to leave off, they'll show up at the flat.

_You have two new messages. First message._

_...[beep]_

_John! It's Rebecca. What's going on with you and Gerald? Bernie told me that Gerald cancelled the drinks date the two of you had at theirs Friday night, and then on Saturday, Gerald still didn't know anything! When Bernie asked if you were okay, Gerald said yes, but Bernie says he looked sad. So, what's going on? Don't hold out on me, all right? You know I love you, right?_

_[beep]..._

_To delete this message, press nine. Next new message._

_...[beep]_

_Me again. C'mon John, I'm worried about you. Please call me._

John sighs and hangs up the phone. He reads the text messages from Rebecca a second time, trying to find a way to respond that doesn't invite more questions. He remembers, now, why having Sherlock in his life makes it so hard to have any other meaningful relationships. Even if Sherlock's return wasn't a secret, John is familiar with the slippery slope he's already started down and at the end of it will be bruised feelings, resentment, and shattered friendships.

Sherlock is almost worth all of it. At least, he was  _before_ —back when John didn't have anyone else. Now, John has  _people_ —people who need his time, need his focus, people with whom he has rapport and kinship. He can't just throw them all in the skip because Sherlock bloody Holmes is back.

(He  _might_ , God help him, if he had to choose.)

**John** : Hey, sorry I've been out of touch. Just getting some things sorted. Don't worry, I'm fine. I promise I'll call you later this week and give you the whole story before anyone else.

**Rebecca** : Will you be at work tomorrow?

**John** : Yes.

**Rebecca** : You'd better be! :)

~*~

Sherlock has a nightmare that night, and John wakes to Sherlock screaming his name. John hears a clatter and a thump, followed by stomping that sounds like Sherlock running for the stairs. John beats him there, clonazepam in hand. When John asks what happened, Sherlock shakes his head, but he looks haunted, and keeps a painful grip on John's arms. After the barbiturate does its job, John moves to go back downstairs. Sherlock’s eyes widen in fear, and John stays. He falls asleep with Sherlock's hand gripping his bicep and a foot hooked over his legs.

When John wakes on Monday morning, he calls into work and tells them he won't be in that night after all.

~*~

**Monday, 25 March 2013**

"John," Mycroft says that evening, surprising John, who's not used to being addressed directly by Mycroft when Sherlock is in the room. (Unless Sherlock refuses to do what Mycroft wants, in which case Mycroft fobs it off onto John.)

"I'm sorry, what?" John asks, sitting up straighter.

"If you haven't already called your supervisor at the hospital to request more time off, might I suggest a cover story?"

John rolls his eyes. "Like you need my permission to  _suggest_ something."

Mycroft dips his head in acknowledgement. "Well, then, I  _suggest_ telling them you're attempting to get your sister into rehab and need a week to get her admitted and settled."

"That's—actually, that’ll work. I'll go call now," John says, before heading into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him for privacy. (Or as much privacy as one can have around Sherlock and Mycroft, which is to say none. Still—it at least gives him the  _illusion_ of privacy.)

It's heartless, but John's almost grateful to have a believable story to tell both his supervisor  _and_ his friends. John doesn't like lying, but he does exactly as Mycroft says if only because he wants to protect Sherlock from the press, after how Sherlock was treated before he faked his death. John still remembers those hateful months after, mourning his best friend and holding onto his belief in the face of such ugly and biased publicity. It's not that John doesn't trust Rebecca or his supervisor, but the more people who know, the more likely the secret will get out.

When he calls the hospital, his supervisor is irritated at first  _(I thought you were coming back tomorrow night)_ then, when John explains himself, she's reluctantly sympathetic. John doesn't take offense, knowing she has an A&E to run and one doctor out for a week means extra work for her, especially on short notice.

"When  _can_ you be back?" she asks, distracted, and John knows she's probably pulled up the schedule on her computer and is trying to shuffle people around to cover for him.

John usually does the night shift Sunday through Wednesday, but that was before Sherlock came back. (This is the third time Sherlock has divided his life into  _before_ and  _after_.  _Before_ and  _after_ he met Sherlock;  _before_ and  _after_ Sherlock died;  _before_ and  _after_ he came back from the dead.)

Before Sherlock came back from the dead, John wanted to keep his weekends free so that his schedule coincided with Gerald's.

John thinks of Sherlock now, of him trying to sleep while alone in this flat, of Sherlock caught in the strong (and cold) steel grip of a nightmare, of him waking to silence and solitude.

"Actually, it looks like I'll need day shift for a while," John asks, wincing in anticipation of his supervisor's censure.

"It'll have to be the weekend, then," she says with a long-suffering sigh, meaning Thursday through Sunday.

"Yeah, that's good. That's great, actually."

John gets off the phone feeling a lot less overwhelmed until, with a pulse of guilt, he realizes that he'll have to call Gerald, explain the cover story to him, and ask him to lie to their friends.

(Then he feels an even  _stronger_ pulse of guilt when he remembers he still hasn't told Gerald what happened between himself and Sherlock on Thursday night, but that's not a conversation he wants to have over the phone.)

John texts Rebecca and gives her the same cover story that he gave Janie, his supervisor. Then he calls Gerald to tell  _him_ as well, so everyone is given the same story. When Gerald answers, John takes a second to soak up the soothing sound of his voice.

"I was worried I'd never hear from you again," Gerald teases when he answers the phone.

"Yeah, it's just—it's been a huge adjustment. It'll be weeks before I get used to seeing him around the flat. I can't talk long, but I wanted to let you know that I told Janie at work that I was trying to get Harry into rehab and needed a week off. I texted Rebecca the same thing 'cause she was worried about me."

"Oh, thank god you told her something because she keeps asking and I was beginning to worry I'd break under the pressure."

John chuckles quietly. "Well, if anyone else asks, just tell them the same thing."

"You need to give me more than that, John. You  _know_ they'll want details."

John takes a deep breath and sighs. "Yeah. Um, I guess we should keep the details as close to what actually happened with Sherlock as possible. So, uh, if they ask—but don't offer details unless they ask."

He and Gerald work out enough details that Gerald feels confident he won't let anything slip, and they both feel confident they can keep well-meaning, but nosy friends away from the flat and held at bay for now.

"Now we've got that sorted—how are you holding up, darling?"

John lets out a deep sigh. "It's been a bit, you know, difficult. Sherlock can't go out until his name is cleared. Mycroft is working on it, but, it takes—it takes time, you know? Sherlock's getting better quickly, though, and it won't be long before he's bored and then it'll be a close race to see if Mycroft gets things worked out before Sherlock reaches his breaking point. He's good at disguises, but if even one person finds out he's alive, it gets—it'll be even harder for him to come back without having himself ripped to shreds in the papers."

John swallows and Gerald makes a sympathetic noise. John gives him his new work schedule and tells Gerald he'll stop by Thursday on his way home from work.


	15. Fallout

**Thursday, 28 March 2013**

On Thursday, John starts his new day shift schedule. All day, in between patients, he's distracted and on edge, trying to think of what he'll say to Gerald once he gets there. Everything he comes up with sounds too blunt, like he doesn't care, or full of platitudes, which is just insulting. No matter what he says, they all mean the same thing.

_I love you, but I love Sherlock more._

On top of that, Sherlock texts John several times an hour. None of what he has to say is interesting or important—he texts what he had for lunch or that Mrs. Hudson came by or that he was a  _good boy_ and took all his medicine. (John frowns at Sherlock's word choice. Lately, it seems like everything Sherlock says is cloaked in sexual innuendo.)

Now that Sherlock has regular meals, and with the addition of two or three smoothies a day for the last week, his healing has clipped along nicely. His bruising is beginning to abate. The fungal infection and anal abscess are completely healed. (When Sherlock informed him of the latter, he'd given John a decidedly sexy smile. John, flustered, had nodded and then retreated to his bedroom where he tried to calm his thundering heart.)

After work, John sends Sherlock a text, letting him know that he has a few things he has to do (actually, just the one thing), but reassuring Sherlock that he'll be home by eight. Then he puts the phone on silent, goes to his locker and pulls out the box with the Magic Bullet in it. The night before, he'd washed it very carefully and packed it up to give back to Gerald.

Gerald looks so happy to see him when he answers the door, that John's heart stutters and he feels his composure crumbling. Gerald's hair is up in the charmingly haphazard topknot he usually wears at home, or when he's working.

"You look miserable, darling, what happened? Come in and sit down," Gerald says when he opens the door.

Gerald steps back so John can come in, but when Gerald leans in to kiss him, John thrusts the box towards him. Gerald freezes, then reaches out slowly to take it. He turns around and walks stiffly towards the kitchen to leave it on the worktop. John follows, but stands next to the dining room table, leaving several feet of space between him and Gerald.

John speaks, his voice coming out unsteady. "We need to talk."

Gerald flinches at the words and he closes his eyes for a few seconds. When he opens them, his eyes glitter with tears, but his body language has subtly shifted, and he looks ready—eager even—to fight.

"You're here to tell me it's over," Gerald says, low and deep. John shivers, a Pavlovian response to the timbre of Gerald's voice—it's his Dom voice.

Gerald walks towards John, and then begins to make a circuit around him, Gerald's eyes moving up and down, occasionally pausing to look closer. He uncannily mirrors Sherlock in this moment, and it occurs to John that this ability to read a person with just a glance is part of what attracted him to Gerald in the first place—it just wasn't as obvious to John then.

"You had sex with him," Gerald says, facing John at last.

John nods.

"When?" Gerald snaps, his voice cold and steady.

"Thursday night," John says, his eyes flicking up to Gerald's, then skittering away again at what he finds there.

Gerald takes the single step necessary to put them toe to toe and then uses the two inches of height he has on John to his advantage, by looming close, forcing John to take a step back. He's trembling and John, misinterpreting the cause of his trembling, reaches out to touch him, to reassure him, but Gerald slaps his hand away.

"Don't you dare touch me," Gerald hisses.

Gerald is vibrating with barely suppressed fury, but John doesn't lower his gaze, knowing every minute of Gerald's anger he endures is only what he deserves.

"Did he fuck you?" Gerald asks, his voice venomous.

John has never met  _this_ Gerald, has never experienced a Gerald full of rage, would have said Gerald was too kind for this kind of reactive anger.

"No," John says, shaking his head. He tries to swallow, but his throat is too dry.

"What  _did_ happen?" Gerald asks. He moves back to lean against the wall between the dining room and kitchen, and crosses his arms, like he's settling in for a lengthy conversation. His face is twisted in anger and disgust, belying the casual slant of his body, though tears glimmer on the edge of falling.

"He, uh, he had a nightmare and I was helping him change his clothes. He kissed me and I didn't want to push him away, in case I hurt him—physically I mean, although—although emotionally, too, I guess. But it got—he got his hand into my pajama bottoms, and I, I—I got hard, I couldn't help it, and he got me off with his hand."

"Oh, is that all?" Gerald asks conversationally.

"You'd rather it was something more?" John asks, his own anger starting to build.

"I'd rather it was  _not at all_!" Gerald roars. "Is his hold over you really that strong? How  _does_ he do it, I wonder. And here I was, meek and faithful, doing my best to support you, berating myself for being jealous. Tell me—is there a reason why you're only telling me this  _now_?"

"I didn't want to do it over the phone," John says, gathering his integrity around him like a shield. "I'm not a coward and I wanted to face you like a man."

"Really," Gerald says conversationally, the sarcasm underlying it thick as blood. "Tell me then—did this reunion hand job happen  _before_ or _after_ I picked up the prescriptions you needed me to fill?"

John closes his eyes as sour shame wends its way from his gut to grip his lungs and heart, seizing them both so that it feels, just for a second, as though his heart has stopped and his lungs collapsed. It would be  _so easy_ to lie, to grant Gerald this one small mercy (although John's not entirely sure Gerald needs it), but he can't add an insult to Gerald's intelligence on top of the pain he's inflicted by confessing his infidelity. His heart restarts and he takes a deep breath, inflating his lungs although he doesn't need that much air to say the word.

"Before."

Something sparks in Gerald's eyes and his face turns thunderous. "You want me to feel grateful that you came to tell me  _in person_ , like a _brave_ man," he sneers. "Well, tell me John—tell me how you can  _possibly_ expect me to think you're not a coward when you had the chance to tell me, but  _instead_ of telling me, you sent me off to run your errand for you and your little resurrected boyfriend! Were you hedging your bets? Keeping the old boyfriend on the line in case the new one didn't work out?"

John's nostrils are flaring. His jaw is clenched so tightly that it's making his head hurt, but he forces his voice to sound calm. "I'd not even wrapped my own head around what happened yet, much less know how to tell you."

"Really? Because it seems simple to me. How about  _I cheated on you_. Did you—did this happen in your bed or upstairs?"

"What difference does it make?" John asks, fatigue stealing over him. Sherlock doesn't sleep well, which means John doesn't either, and he's just come off a ten-hour shift in the A&E.

"Just tell me!" The first cracks in Gerald's facade are making an appearance. There's an unspoken _please_ on the end of his order.

"In my bed," John says.

Suddenly, Gerald lets out a terrible, choked off wail and his face seems to fold in on itself before he covers it with his hands. John stays frozen in place. Gerald's hands drop to his sides, tears spilling over his cheeks. John notices what he hadn't when he walked in—the smudged bruises under Gerald's eyes, the unusually pale quality of his skin. He's been  _worried,_ about John most likely, and this is how John rewards him—a confession of infidelity and the end of their relationship.

" _Why_ , John? What does he have that I don't, that he can walk in the door after everything he did to you—he left you  _alone_ , let you think he was dead! I was  _there_! I  _watched_ you grieve! He made you watch while he faked his suicide, and you bought a new bed because you didn't want to sully his memory, but in our—in the bed where  _we_ —where you let me inside your body—it meant everything to me! That bed felt like  _ours_. For god's sake, you fucked me in that bed the  _same day_ and you let him—did any of that cross your mind? Did you even  _think_ of me? Do I matter so little compared to him?"

The last sentence is said so quietly, it might as well be a whisper.

"I made a huge mistake," John says tremulously, wiping away his own tears. "I can't change what happened. I want you in my life, but I—I never stopped being in love with him," John says quietly. "It didn't matter then—he was dead, so it didn't matter. I love you, Gerald, no matter how much I've hurt you."

"Do you remember the cemetery, John?" Gerald asks, as though they're old friends reminiscing.

"The, the cemetery?" John asks, confused.

"When you tried to burn the notebook, and I hit my knee and we joked about him being jealous even in death."

"Um, yeah," John says carefully. "I remember."

"It's one of my favorite memories. I never told you, but—well, I didn't think I would run out of time to tell you, did I? So, I'm telling you now.

"I loved that day because you—you let me be a part of what you were trying to do—to honor him, and your feelings for him, and you weren't at all self-conscious. You were so—I don't know how to say it without sounding pathetically in love, but you shone so brightly that day. You were so happy, and I'd helped you with that. I felt like I was basking in the sun, but you were the sun. I never felt jealous of him, never. Not once did you ever make me feel like you were measuring me against him.

"That's how I know your happiness was genuine. I really  _did_ give you that."

"You've given me so much more than that." John drags the sleeve of his jacket over his eyes to clear the tears away, throat spasming around the mass of grief that's settled there.

"Have I?" Gerald asks in a wavering voice.

His chin dimples, like a child's, as a precursor to tears, and he looks so innocent in that moment, with his silly topknot, that John has to swallow a sob in order to speak.

"Yes, you—of course you have, Gerald. Of course, you have."

"None of it matters, though, does it?" Gerald's breath hitches and it takes him a few deep breaths before he can speak without crying. "What we had was over the minute you saw he was alive."

Gerald brushes past him and moves to open the front door. John stops him with a hand on his forearm.

"Is this—I don't want us to never speak to each other again, unless—or is that what you want? To never speak to me again?" The thought fills John with panic as he begins to grasp the depth of his  _own_ loss.

Gerald doesn't answer. He just opens the door and waits, head lowered, the topknot John has found so charming falling forward.

"Gerald, please," John says, unable to hide the sorrowful hitch in his voice.

"Just—just go home, John," Gerald says, his voice congested with tears, and strangely flat.

"I'm sorry," John says again, but Gerald never looks up, never even acknowledges John spoke. He finds himself out on the pavement, watching Gerald's front door close quietly in his face.

John walks two blocks before he realizes he's going the opposite way from the tube station. His body feels too heavy, his limbs leaden. He wants to sit down on the sidewalk and cry the way children do—heaving and sobbing, dripping mucus and tears—because it's the kind of crying that wipes a person clean, and John feels  _fouled_. He can't face Sherlock like this, knowing Sherlock will  _see_ the desolation in John's heart, will deduce it from the snot on John's sleeve and the red rimming his eyes.

He has to go home, though. It's already dark out, plus he feels grotty and in need of a shower, and hasn't eaten all day except a banana in the doctor's lounge someone else had left behind with a cheeky little note that said  _eat me_. Funny that—he feels safer eating a banana that a stranger left in a public place, than he would if he'd found it on his kitchen table, knowing how little regard Sherlock has for disclosing the parameters of an experiment to John before using him in one.

With that, the fury John has been harboring toward Sherlock for a week explodes inside him, polluting his already ravaged psyche. He knows when he walks in the door, when Sherlock  _sees_ what's happened, he won't think about comforting John—he'll only say something like  _well, then why did you tell him if it hurts so much to break up with him?_

Riding the tube home, John reminds himself that Sherlock isn't the comforting type, and not to be hurt when Sherlock dismisses John's feelings. He just needs to give Sherlock a quick exam to make sure he's still healing well, and then he can take a shower and go to bed.  _Don't let him get to you,_ he tells himself.

The advice is three years too late.


	16. Heartbreak

**Thursday, 28 March 2013**

It's half eight before Sherlock hears the front door shut and John's tread on the stairs. It's slow and plodding. Sherlock has been pacing, phone gripped in his hand, for almost two hours. Six milligrams of clonazepam have kept him from a full-blown panic attack, but it hasn't quenched the urge to leave the flat and find John.

John's cryptic text two hours ago was the last Sherlock heard from him. Sherlock has sent him a dozen texts since and received nothing. He even  _rang_ John, needlessly as it turned out, since John failed to answer.

John walks into the flat, drops his bag, toes off his shoes, pulls off his jacket and hangs it up. He doesn't look at Sherlock.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock demands, sounding like an angry wife. "You have not responded to  _any_ of my—"

John finally looks up at him, and Sherlock freezes. He takes in the red-rimmed eyes, the downturned mouth, the forward slope of the shoulders, the mussed hair, the pale cheeks, the furrowed brow.

"Oh," Sherlock says, blinking, his outrage arrested. "I see."

"Listen, I've had a shit day. Do you need me to look—?" John asks, then gestures vaguely at Sherlock's body.

"I'm perfectly well except for—" Sherlock says, and then pauses. John's a powder keg, clearly grieving, furious with Sherlock in addition to himself, and waiting for just one spark to go off.

"Except for—?" John prompts, turning his finger over a few times to encourage Sherlock to speak. (Even though he really doesn't want him to speak—that's perfectly clear to Sherlock.)

"Uh, nothing. Never mind. Perfectly well," Sherlock babbles. (Underneath his fear of setting John off is relief so strong he must fight to keep a grin off his face—Gerald is no longer The Boyfriend and Sherlock is that much closer to having John for himself in every way.)

"I'm gonna have a shower and then go to bed."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock says. "Completely understandable."  _(Say it, you idiot, say it)_ "John, I'm sorry—for your—" Sherlock takes a deep breath and sighs. "I'm sorry." He leaves it at that.

John stares at Sherlock for a moment, and Sherlock can see, playing out in John's eyes, the idea of making a fuss about it, what he's likely to gain, realizing he doesn't want to, and making the decision not to.

"Takes two," he says wearily.

John walks to his bedroom and shuts the door. The water starts up immediately (John's letting it warm up before getting in), then the opening and (slamming) shut of various drawers as he pulls out night clothes, the  _en suite_ door opening and closing and then, finally, the scraping metal sound of the shower curtain rings as the curtain is drawn open and then closed. Then silence for seven seconds (other than the ambient sounds) and then—there it is—weeping.

John is standing in the shower weeping (God, no,  _sobbing_ ), after having ended his relationship with Gerald, and Sherlock is at least partially if not completely at fault. Sherlock's very existence has always made it difficult for John to date  _(if we dated each other, problem solved, but now isn't the time to point that out)_. It's not just that, however—John's infidelity is the cause of the breakup, and Sherlock is to blame for John's infidelity.

_If you put him in the position of being unfaithful to his boyfriend, he'll resent you for it._

_He's perfectly capable of saying no._

_I don't think he_ is  _where you're concerned._

Sherlock feels the unpleasant, greasy weight of guilt settling in his stomach, but he can't be  _sorry_ about the turn things have taken. He doesn't regret it, not even as he has to pinch himself through the light cotton of his pajama bottoms to keep himself from running to John to comfort him.

The shower goes on and on, as does John's tears. Sherlock is panting with the effort of keeping himself in his chair. Ten minutes, then twenty. After thirty, the water tank will run out of heated water and John will have to get out, but he doesn't, not until almost forty minutes have gone by. Sherlock has to take another clonazepam halfway through because his anxiety is so high, he's so tightly wound, he  _wants so much_! Not just to comfort John, but to kiss him, to suck him, to fuck him, to erase Gerald from his body and his heart, and then he wants John to do all those things to him, for the same reason—to scrub clean Sherlock's defiled body and heart.

But he can't! He doesn't know  _why_ he can't, he just knows that he can't. Ridiculous rules—even  _Mycroft_ , for God's sake!

Sherlock hears the  _en suite_ door open and then close, hears the muted rustling of John getting dressed, then the whisper of John's duvet being pulled back. John's mattress is memory foam and makes no noise  _(perfect for rough fucking—no squeaking or banging the wall) (something to consider, much later—much, much later going by the depth of John's sorrow) (oh, John, so precious, more precious than anything)_ when he gets in except for the faintest sound of the platform legs scratching momentarily at the hardwood floor.

Sherlock waits, still in his chair, still fighting with himself to stay still. When he hears it again— _his John! Weeping_! —he can't fight it anymore. Silently, but quickly, he moves through the flat, turns the knob of John's bedroom door  _(not locked—either trusts me, or doesn't care, or—even better,_ wants  _me to come in)_ and, like a phantom, slips into bed behind John. Before John can react, Sherlock has wrapped John up, his longer body and limbs moving over and around John and then drawing him back, back against Sherlock's chest.

"Sherlock—"

"Sh," Sherlock whispers. "I'm hugging you."

"This is bit more than a hug," John says, his voice congested, but there's a tiny breathy puff of what might be construed as an affectionate laugh (if you squint).

_Oh, John_. "Yes, well. It's me."

John seems to accept this explanation, or is too tired to complain, but it takes him ages to relax against Sherlock's body. Sherlock counts out the minutes, his own eyes beginning to droop  _(far too much clonazepam—mind is getting fuzzy now that the source of my anxiety is home safe—where he belongs)_.

Sherlock's face seems to be nuzzling against the back of John's neck, lightly snuffling, even, without his conscious permission, but he can't make himself stop, not when John seems to finally be relaxing  _(does nuzzling someone cause the release of certain neurohormonal chemicals that help them relax?) (Evolutionary proof?) (Pair bonding, obviously.) (Very animalistic, though). (Don't care. John smells soooo nice.)_

Right before Sherlock falls asleep, he feels John's fingers  _(small, delicate almost) (well, of course—a surgeon's hands) (thank God someone shot him or he'd be performing surgery out there where he might get shot) (stop thinking about that—it's irrelevant)_ curling over his own, larger fingers, knitting them together. Sherlock smiles, does some more nuzzling, and drifts off to a barbiturate (and John) fueled sleep.

~*~

**Friday, 29 March 2013**

Sherlock wakes to an empty bed. The digital clock on the bedside table says it's forty-five minutes after six in the morning. Sherlock strains his ears to listen, but the flat is silent. Surely John hasn't already left for work?

Sherlock gets out of bed, and pads into the kitchen. He needs to relieve himself, but if John is still home, he doesn't want to miss the chance to say goodbye. From the kitchen, the back of John's head is clearly visible in his chair. Reassured, Sherlock uses the loo and brushes his teeth, before going to greet John.

"Good morning," Sherlock says, not wanting to startle John, although the flushing of the toilet should have been enough of an alert that he was up and moving.

"Oh, hey," John says flatly, his nose still clearly congested.

Has he been crying again? Sherlock sits in his chair and looks at John, who fails to look back. Instead, John is staring at his hands, but even with his eyes lowered, Sherlock can see their hollow look, the smudged bruises beneath them.

Sherlock finds himself completely unprepared as to what to say or do. When he imagined John breaking up with Gerald, his imagination skipped over the part where John was sad over his breakup  _(a week? a month? a year? oh, God, I can’t wait a year)_ and went straight to the part where John was in his arms, kissing him.

Sherlock sits silently, his mind sifting through examples of grief that don't involve the death of a loved one, so he can determine how long he should wait before cornering John and kissing him. Obviously, he can't ask John—even Sherlock knows that's beyond the pale. He watches John, who is also sitting silently, who, in fact, is beginning to look like a John-shaped thing in which John no longer resides. Suddenly, John seems far too still to be alive.

_(Could someone have tracked me here? No, Mycroft said Brankavich was dead.) (Danilo?) (Definitely dead. I saw the shot. Neat hole in the head. Didn't even bleed.) (Maybe it didn't bleed because it didn't kill him.) (Not John, please, no, too precious to be victim to Danilo)._

Sherlock is shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. His heartbeat is thunderous… how can John not hear it? Sherlock rushes to the flat door and locks it, then does the same for the kitchen door. Then he runs back to his chair, but John is nowhere to be found. Sherlock's so pumped full of adrenaline that his toes and face are completely numb.

"John!" he shouts. " _John_!"

John suddenly appears between the kitchen and sitting room. Sherlock rushes him and pushes him down to the ground and hisses at him to be quiet. Doesn't John know how precious he is? How eagerly Sherlock's enemies would be to hurt John in retaliation, maybe even kill him? The very thought leaves him gasping for breath. His vision winnows down to John, black edging his face, like a vignette. John grips the nape of Sherlock's neck and pushes his head down between his legs. His other hand clasps Sherlock's wrist, two fingers taking his pulse.

Then John stands up, runs to the kitchen, comes back with something—a square of foil. He guides Sherlock back to his chair, pushes him down, peels the backing off the foil square, and holds it to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock knows what he's supposed to do. He pushes his tongue out of his mouth  _(like communion—a barbiturate communion) (John is a priest) (no, John is the God I worship)_ and touches his tongue to the tiny white pill inside, then pulls it back into his mouth, remembering not to swallow or chew, but let it dissolve on his tongue.

John crouches in front of Sherlock and his hand strokes up and down Sherlock's thigh in a soothing motion. He doesn't realize he's doing it. "All right?" John asks.

Now both John's hands are resting on Sherlock's knees, and he's using them to push himself upright, when Sherlock catches him around the hips and jerks John toward him. The pain leaves him groaning before he bites it off, and John, alarmed, bends closer. Sherlock takes the opportunity to pull John onto his lap, gritting his teeth against the pain.

John isn't as stout as he seems under all those layers of clothes, but he  _was_ much stouter when Sherlock left him behind. He's lost weight  _(four, no—three and a half kilos) (grief and less takeaway, more healthy meals) (stupid Gerald)_.

Once John is in his lap, Sherlock wraps his arms around him, squeezing him, caging him, really  _(don't go)_. Sherlock doesn't try to kiss John, though he wants to—he simply holds tight until his body stops shaking and his mind crawls its way out of the brume of anxiety. Vision and sound seem to assault him all at once, and he clings even tighter to John. Without realizing it, Sherlock's face is pressed against John's neck and he's whisper-moaning nine words repeatedly  _you'realiveiloveyoutheycanthurtyou_. John is whispering  _I love you, too_ and  _I'm here_ and  _I know_ , but his words aren't running together.

This moment is, without a doubt, the most intimate he has ever shared with another human being. Sherlock has had sex with dozens of people (unless one's definition of sex is penetration only), but he has never felt more naked and vulnerable than he does now.

Their humid, whispered declarations against each other's skin taper off until they're both silent, relaxed against each other, as Baker Street comes to full life outside.

"I have to go to work," John murmurs, brushing his lips against Sherlock's temple.

Sherlock is on the verge of saying  _please stay home forever, never work again unless it's with me_ , but he releases his hold on John instead, who climbs out of Sherlock's lap in a slightly amusing, uncoordinated way in the effort not to hurt him. John sets the blister pack of clonazepam on the desk.

"Don't take as much as you did yesterday, okay?" he says, trying for stern, but just looking weary. "If you start to panic, take  _one_ and then wait thirty minutes before taking another. Orally disintegrating does not mean it works immediately, just that it gets into your  _bloodstream_ immediately. It still takes a bit of time to work in your brain."

John checks his watch and starts to move towards the door, and Sherlock wants to beg him to stay, but he represses the urge. After John puts on his shoes and jacket, grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder, he turns to Sherlock. He looks right into Sherlock's eyes and says, "If you need me, and you can't reach me, call Mrs. Hudson. Will you do that for me?"

Sherlock tries to pull his legs up into the chair in anticipation of a sulk, but he's in too much pain, and just ends up hunched over. John's face falls into concerned indecision—Sherlock can see him warring with himself  _(go to work or call in? if he stays, I'm not sufficient distraction from the pain of his breakup, but his essential_ John-ness  _—doctor/caretaker—soldier/protector—leader/decision-maker—is at war with itself, trying to decide to whom he owes the greater debt) (let it be me, please)_.

"You shouldn't have jerked me into your lap like that, you know," John says. He stops with his hand on the doorknob. "I'll be home right after work. It takes about thirty minutes for me to get home on the tube."  

With that, he's gone.

~*~

For John, the next two weeks go by in a blur of heartache and furtive tears unleashed only in the shower or at the darkest part of the night into his pillow to muffle the sounds. Whenever he's at work, he can forget about breaking up with Gerald, but he never stops worrying about Sherlock being home alone.

Sherlock's body is healing, but PTSD has him in a firm grip, and he always has a harder time of it on the days when John has to work. Sometimes, John will come home, and be greeted by a calm, confident Sherlock, only to watch helplessly as Sherlock gets slammed with a flashback an hour later, his terrified voice and the agony on his face leaving John awash in impotent rage towards the people responsible for Sherlock's suffering.

Sherlock always has nightmares on the nights after John's been at work, sometimes more than one, and can't fall back asleep unless John lies down with him. After a week of this, John decides to just allow Sherlock to sleep in his bed indefinitely, so they can both get some much-needed rest.

Every morning he wakes up in a cage of Sherlock's limbs, as though Sherlock is protecting him. Given what John has heard Sherlock scream during a flashback or shout out during a nightmare, it's clear that Sherlock's persecution at the hands of the guard, Danilo, weighs heavier in Sherlock's psyche than the other torture. He often has nightmares where Danilo rapes John, or forces Sherlock to.

The tension at home feels unbearable sometimes, even on the days John doesn't work or when Sherlock hasn't had a nightmare the night before. It's like the two of them can't relax, knowing that a flashback or panic attack can rip through their uneasy peace at any moment.

~*~

 

**Thursday, 11 April 2013**

After his breakup with Gerald, Rebecca and Cyril (who John is the closest to out of all of Gerald's friends) stay in touch with John daily and try to get him to open up about what happened. While John appreciates their concern, he can't say anything other than it was a joint decision to end their relationship, and eventually they stop, realizing they're just making things worse by trying to get him and Gerald to talk about it.

But Rebecca works with John, and even though their schedules only overlap on Thursdays, he knows that eventually she'll manage to corner him. One day, two weeks after John and Gerald break up, she succeeds in dragging him into an empty loo off the doctor's lounge before he can get away. She locks the door, and demands he tell her what the hell is going on between him and Gerald. John caves and tells her they broke up because he cheated. He expects Rebecca to be angry, but she's shocked instead.

"Who was it with?"

"Does it matter?" he asks, shrugging in defeat.

"Yes, it matters! I know you, John Watson, and I know you would never cheat on Gerald—or anyone else for that matter—unless it was with someone extremely important to you! Was it someone from your past? A  _woman_?"

"No!" John says, offended, ironically, that she thinks he would cheat on Gerald in some kind of bid to reclaim his heterosexuality.

"It was someone I thought I'd never see again. He'd, uh—moved out of the country, and I thought it was permanent, but then he came back unexpectedly."

"Okay, but what's the big secret? Why won't you and Gerald say anything? I mean, who is this bloke, that you would break up with Gerald the minute he comes back to London?"

John sags against the wall and rubs his hand over his forehead in frustration. He's lonely and has nobody to talk to about what happened. (Obviously Sherlock isn't sympathetic about the breakup, and, of course, he has his own fears and sorrow to overcome)

"Okay, fine," John says finally. "He works with SIS. He was on a mission for them, out of the country. He's undercover—well, not  _undercover_ necessarily, but he's in hiding. I'd never expected to see him again, and then he showed up. Gerald and I can't tell anyone, we made a sort of nondisclosure agreement, and that's why we've been shifty about it. His location has to remain secret."

"What's his name?" she asks, but when John opens his mouth and starts shaking his head, she interrupts him. "Never mind, forget I asked. Look—do you love this man?"

"I do," John says simply, the answer written in his very bones it seems.

"And I take it you were still in love with him when you met Gerald?"

"Yes. Madly in love, it turns out. I wouldn't have started anything with Gerald otherwise. It's not a matter of using Gerald as a replacement for this man. He was never coming back, and I had no idea where to find him even if that had been an option. So, I moved on and fell in love with Gerald, and I would've spent the rest of my life with him. I know this sounds hokey, but Sh—I mean this other man, well—he’s the love of my life, you know?"

Rebecca smiles, her eyes wistful. She reaches out and wraps John in her arms, her soft woman's body fitting against him in a way that feels strange after so long in a man's arms. John has hugged Rebecca on multiple occasions, but those were quick  _how are you_ hugs or  _it's good to see you_ hugs. This is an embrace, a clinging, protective hold that tries to express in touch what feels too difficult to say in person—  _you're hurting, and I love you, and I'll do anything I can to ease this pain from your heart_. John finds himself teary when she pulls away, and Rebecca is as well.

"You're a good man," she says quietly. "I know how much you love Gerald, how much it must hurt to be without him, but if you're in love with this other man then you need to  _be_ with him—I mean, that's gonna happen, right?

"I hope so," he says with a rueful grin.

"None of us would want to stand in the way of that—not even Gerald. We're all sentimental fools who never quite grew up, and we all believe in true love. It'll take a while, but you and Gerald will be friends again, because there's too much love and affection there. Plus, it won't be fun getting together with everyone if you and Gerald glare at each other the whole time."

John laughs, surprising himself—it's the first time he's laughed in days. But then his pager beeps and buzzes against his hipbone where it's tucked into his scrub bottoms.

"Fuck," he says, pulling it out and checking the message.

John frowns at the digital words crawling along the small screen of the pager. "It says fire—primary school—"

At that, Rebecca's pager goes off as well. "Uh-oh," Rebecca says, grimacing at John, who echoes her dread.

For the rest of the day, John is kept busy treating children caught in a fire at their school. He doesn't have time to think about Sherlock, or Gerald, or anything beyond treating each small victim.

~*~

When John finally makes his way home, exhausted, sweaty, and smelling like ashes, he finds Mycroft in his chair and Sherlock in a suit for the first time since his return home. (And  _Christ,_ doesn't he look bloody gorgeous!)

"John!" Sherlock cries, jumping out of his own chair. John winces with him, knowing it must have hurt his ribs. "Mycroft has good news!"

"I could use some of that," John mutters, kicking off his shoes, hanging up his jacket, and dropping his bag on the floor. "I'm off to have a shower"

"You can't!" Sherlock says, running to intercept him. He grabs John by the shoulders. "This is too important!"

"Give me fifteen minutes, Sherlock, please," John says, wiggling his way out of Sherlock's grip. "I'll be able to focus better if you let me take a shower first. I've had a shit day."

Sherlock drops his hands to his sides and steps back, his demeanor suddenly cool. "You seem to have a lot of those lately," he says stiffly.

"A lot of what?" John asks absentmindedly, leaning against the counter so he can bend over and take off his socks.

"A lot of  _shit days_ ," Sherlock says, with a sneer.

John's face whips up, and he tilts his head slightly to the left, the beginning of a smile-that's-not-a-smile on his lips. "Yeah, I have. That happens when you go through a breakup."

Sherlock puts his hands on his hips. "How long—"

He's interrupted by Mycroft loudly clearing his throat. "We can discuss the press conference on Monday, when John will be home all day. I'll be off then. Goodnight, Sherlock—John," he says, nodding to each in turn.

John makes for the shower while Sherlock's distracted by brotherly staring contest between himself and Mycroft.

~*~

"I'm starving," John says, when he comes out of the shower. "What about you?"

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, the ankle of one leg over the knee of the other, his fingers pressed together just under his lips. He's removed his suit jacket, and John is again reminded how strikingly handsome Sherlock is. He's gained weight and healed quickly, and in less than a month he looks almost like his old self, except his hair is shorter than John's ever seen it although it's finally grown out enough to curl. It feels like he's looking down his nose at John, even though Sherlock is the one sitting down.

"Don't you want to know what the good news is?" Sherlock asks, widening his eyes in petulant expectation.

John sighs. "Yeah, I do, I just would like to eat first before I have to deal with anything else."

"Fine, order something," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. "Although now what I have to tell you will be anticlimactic so I might as well just say it. NSY is holding a press conference on the twenty-sixth to clear my name. There, see? That's why I wanted to tell you right away."

"Oh, that is good news!" John says, nodding his head. "Well done, you."

John's genuine enthusiasm mollifies Sherlock, although he's still disappointed that John isn't as excited as he is.

"Angelo's will deliver here," John says. "Would you like Italian?"

"When did they start delivering?"

"Well, it's only me— _us_ —they deliver to."

"How did you manage that?" Sherlock asks, eyes narrowed at John in surprise.

" _I_ didn't manage anything.  _You_ died, and Angelo sent food around a couple weeks after the papers reported your  _fake_ death. I think he was really just checking up on me."

At the reminder of Sherlock's deception, John tenses visibly and Sherlock shrinks into himself in frustrated guilt. He knows if he apologizes, John will just tell him apologies are useless (something  _Sherlock_ taught him, unfortunately), and run to his bedroom to avoid a row with Sherlock, who is beginning to  _hope_ for a row. Now that Sherlock has gained weight, and his bruises have faded, John's concern has diminished considerably, making room for his anger and resentment.

"Well?" John asks impatiently.

"Whatever you decide is fine, John," Sherlock says, trying to be accommodating.

John huffs in irritation, picks up his phone, and dials Angelo's restaurant. Thirty minutes later, John and Sherlock have enough food to feed three times as many people.

Sherlock goes into the kitchen to help John lay out the food. They work together in silence, their bodies comfortable in close quarter even if their hearts are divided. When they sit down at the table, they eat in silence for several long moments. Sherlock surreptitiously watches John, whose eyes never rise above the level of his plate. Sherlock endures the weighted atmosphere until he feels sick with uncertainty, and can't stand the silence any longer.

"I would expect you to be happier about the press conference," he says. "After all, it means I'll be out of your hair."

"Bit late for that," John says, his eyes on his plate. He takes a bite of stuffed mushroom, and doesn't bother to look up at Sherlock.

"Let me guess—I ruined your life first by faking my death, and ruined it again by returning! Is that it? You wish I had  _stayed_ dead?"

John's chair scrapes across the floor as he launches to his feet. "I wish you hadn't  _lied_ to me in the first place!"

Sherlock gets to his feet, too, and begins stalking towards John. "I went through  _hell_ to protect you."

"If you'd have let me go with you, I would've kept you from it! And if I couldn't keep you from it, you  _know_ I would've gone through hell _with you_!" John shouts, stabbing his finger in Sherlock's face.

"What do you want me to do?" Sherlock cries, throwing his arms wide. "How many ways can I say I'm sorry to have kept you in the dark? Everything I did was to protect  _you_!"

"It wasn't  _just_ me. You told me Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were targeted as well."

"Oh, is that it, then? You wouldn't be so angry if I'd done it  _only_ for you? If you must know the details, here they are—" Sherlock says, pacing up and down the kitchen floor. "Their potential killers were found and dispatched that same day, and Mycroft's agents didn't find anyone who'd been tasked with taking their place.

"But  _you_ , John—  _you_ were being hunted, not just by the initial sniper, who Mycroft's agents took out, but by the one responsible for you if the first one died, and then another when  _that_ one died, like murderous Russian dolls. It was only after every layer was peeled back did we see the scope of Moriarty’s plan to destroy me. I'll give you one guess as to how he planned to do that. No?"

John stands in front of the kitchen window, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his nostrils flaring, and his jaw clenched painfully tight.

"Do you remember Moriarty's promise at the pool? He said he would  _burn the heart out of me_. My  _heart_ , John—the thing I care about most in the world. Not my reputation—I don't care what people think unless it keeps me from solving interesting puzzles. No, you see,  _my_ heart was—and is—you, and Moriarty had gone to great lengths to ensure that you would always be in danger unless I remained dead. No matter how many enemy agents Mycroft found, and destroyed, there was always another one to take his place.

"You are my heart and Moriarty knew it, even before I did. Everything I did was only because I wanted to protect you."

"And who protects me from  _you_ , eh? You have sabotaged everything in my life that wasn't to do with you, and my relationship with Gerald was no different. Do you know what he said when I went to see him that night? He said the minute you walked in the door, what he and I had was over, that it never stood a chance once you showed up. Why, Sherlock?  _Why_ did you kiss me that first night? And the rest of it—the hand job, the—you  _knew_ I was with someone. Why do you  _always_ have to sabotage everything in my life that isn't about  _you!_ " John yells

"I  _told_ you why! I'm  _in love with you_!" Sherlock yells back, his voice breaking at the end. "While I was out there, alone, away from home, from  _you_ , I made a vow to  _myself_ not to waste another chance to tell you because I'd been too much of a coward to tell you before I went away. I was afraid of losing your friendship if I confessed how I felt because you took every opportunity to announce that you weren't gay, and that we weren't a couple. You were so terrified someone might think you liked  _cock_ so I kept my feelings to myself,  _even_ after I realized you were attracted to me.

"The thought of coming home to you kept me going—that, and the small bit of hope I carried with me that, if I were just brave enough to tell you, brave enough to push past your  _I'm not gay_ defenses, you might love me back. My thinking was flawed, though, because I was operating under a faulty premise. I assumed you didn't want me because I was a  _man._ But it turns out that you just didn't want  _me_."

Sherlock's breath hitches, and he swallows the need to cry. The tears spill over regardless, and Sherlock looks down at the floor, trying to control himself. John says his name, gently, and that makes the ache in Sherlock's chest even stronger.

"I—if I could go back to that night," Sherlock says quietly, hating the way his voice cracks and breaks. "I would've done it differently. I was greedy, and desperate, and  _so_   _very_   _hurt_  that you could love him, but not me. So, I—I just wanted to grab what I could while your pity for me would mean you wouldn't stop me. I didn't  _consciously_  attempt to sabotage your relationship with Gerald, and if there's any chance you can reconcile with him, I urge you to take that chance. I won't get in the way anymore."

John says his name again, just a whisper, but Sherlock shakes his head, slinging tears as he does, crying so hard he feels dehydrated, and staggers away from a stunned John. He flees to the upstairs bedroom. He leaves the overhead light and the lamp on, afraid of the dark, but he closes the door, the first time he's done so since coming home. He crawls under the covers and pulls them over his head, something he hasn't done since childhood. This time the monster he's hiding from is the hollowness in his chest where the hope for John's love used to be.

There's only one thing for it now, if he's to ensure he doesn't put himself in the way of John's happiness—he must cure himself of this inappropriate attachment to John.

_Send me the information for the therapist you found. —SH_

_If I may ask, what changed your mind? —MH_

_I took your advice and asked John his opinion. It was enlightening. —SH_

_Very well. I'll have him call you tomorrow. What time? —MH_

_10 in the morning. —SH_

_Consider it done. —MH_


	17. Therapy

**Friday, 12 April 2013**

Friday morning, Sherlock stays in bed until John leaves for work. John texts him an hour later and asks  _can we talk when I get home_ to which Sherlock doesn't respond, although his fingers hover over the keypad of his phone for too long before he finally switches off the screen and sets it on the bedside table.

He goes downstairs to take a shower, and make tea, which he then takes back upstairs. He sits down at the desk in the bedroom. The whole room is depressingly character-free, considering that John slept in it for eighteen months. Sherlock had been expecting a John-ish aura to pervade the room, a golden, cozy-warm net in which to nurse his bruised body and heart, but whatever presence John had in this room is gone.

The only furniture left in it when Sherlock took up sleeping there was his own bed, a floor lamp, a small bedside locker, and the desk with chair. A few days after he came back, Sherlock had pushed aside the sliding doors on the closet to find stacks of boxes. In some, Sherlock found his own clothes, randomly and haphazardly stored—pants mixed with belts, unmatched socks tucked here and there, a book or two thrown in. The rest of the boxes held Christmas decorations, and other detritus of life that people pack away in boxes until they're needed.

At fifteen minutes to ten, Sherlock starts pacing around the bedroom. With John at work, he  _could_ go downstairs, but he's afraid he'll go to John's room, fall into his bed, and weep, so he stays upstairs.

When the phone rings three minutes before ten, he snatches it up and stares at the unknown number flashing on the screen, takes a deep breath, and answers the phone.

~*~

Dr. Andy Reed spends at least thirty minutes telling Sherlock who he is, what happened to him, and why he became a therapist. He was captured by the Taliban in 2004, and held for three hundred and ninety-four days during which he experienced physical and psychological torture and extreme deprivation. When he was finally rescued, he was invalided out of the army and sent home with a diagnosis of PTSD where he promptly failed to adjust to civilian life.

His symptoms were the same as thousands of other soldiers who came home from war, but the therapists he saw  _only_ addressed the symptoms—anxiety, insomnia, tremors, flashbacks, panic attacks, weight gain or loss, lack of libido, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, addiction. None of them dealt with what had  _caused_ the PTSD. Dr. Reed needed to understand what had happened to him, and heal his shattered psyche.

We all have an inner monologue, Dr. Reed says, an idea of  _self_ , the  _ego_ of Freud's writings—the person who we see as our most essential self. A soldier diagnosed with PTSD suffered the same symptoms as Dr. Reed, but unlike those soldiers, his experience hadn't just  _changed_ him, it had  _rewritten who he was_ at his most basic self. Like an infant, he had been dependent upon his tormentors for everything, including whether he lived or died. Dr. Reed's autonomy, as a human, and as a man, was completely stripped away. He'd gone to war thinking himself an average bloke, maybe a bit braver than average, a man who believed in fighting for Queen and Country, but during his captivity, he had routinely been cowardly, weak, even cruel—if he could direct the focus of his tormentors towards another prisoner, he did it. Every single time.

"That's the insidiousness of torture," Dr. Reed says. "Nobody holds up under torture. It continuously peels away layer after layer of your personality, and every time you think you've hit the bottom, like this is the absolute  _weakest_ you can get—your torturers come up with something to prove you wrong. Think of your essential self as a hard drive where your experiences are stored. Sometimes you go in and delete a few files, maybe run some diagnostics, but it stays roughly the same. Torture  _rewrites_ your hard drive—that inner monologue goes quiet. How do you heal a broken mind when it doesn't remember who it was before? I had been completely dehumanized and emasculated. I tried to tell myself that just because I'd begged, or wasn't  _stoic_ or, even worse, couldn't  _soldier on_ it didn't mean I was less of a man. Except, it felt exactly like that."

It was  _that_ complete disconnect from himself and other human beings that pushed Dr. Reed to become a therapist. He wanted to fill that hole in the veteran support system. If he couldn't find his own therapist, he could at least be there for someone else.

"And now here I am," he says at last.

As Dr. Reed speaks, Sherlock finds himself nodding his head in agreement, even as he cringes away from such a frank discussion of something so terrible, so beyond the average human's understanding. It's already half ten before Dr. Reed finishes his story.

"Do you feel comfortable telling me what happened to you?"

"Yes," Sherlock says. "I'm not ashamed."

"That's half my job done, then," Dr. Reed says with a laugh. "Is there anything specific you want to work on during our phone calls?"

"Yes. As a result of my—incarceration, I've formed an unhealthy attachment to my best friend, John."

"What do you mean by  _unhealthy_?"

Sherlock explains the  _incident_ the night he came home, and his terrible blunder the next day when he told John he was in love with him.

"I've known for three years that John was attracted to me, but he always stridently denied being gay. Technically, he's bisexual, not gay, but anyway, he was dating another man and he told his—boyfriend about this—what had happened between John and myself and it resulted in the end of their relationship, and John blames me. He's also, rightfully so, angry at me for faking my death and then keeping him in the dark for eighteen months. Our friendship is in danger because of this—inappropriate attachment."

"I can't cure you from being in love, Sherlock," Dr. Reed says.

"I'm  _not_ in love with him," Sherlock says, making a noise of frustration. "That's my  _point_. I only  _think_ I'm in love with him because what happened to me in Serbia left me feeling very—needy."

"Sherlock, look—I'm here to talk about what happened in Serbia, and to help you deal with the issues you'll face trying to return to a city that thought you were dead. And, although we'll cover relationships—including flat mates, best mates, lovers, and random citizens—if I underwent a  _significantly_ invasive vetting process and was read in on some frankly  _unbelievable_ James Bond-esque adventures because you want to blame PTSD for wanting to get a leg over your flatmate, you are taking the piss—the very  _expensive_ piss, mind you—and need to get yourself a new therapist."

Sherlock is struck momentarily dumb, stunned by the way he has been relegated to the same realm as that type of desperate woman who reads articles in ladies' magazines with titles such as  _Three Steps for Seducing Your Man!_

Then Sherlock's mind gains its equilibrium, and he surges to his feet while drawing in a deep breath. He hasn't planned these words, and they've never been put together in quite this same way, but Dr. Andy Reed has just blundered into a tripwire in Sherlock's psyche that apparently protects not just himself, but John as well, from insults to their mutual affections.

"There will  _never_ be a time in my life when John Watson is someone to  _get a leg over_ as you so quaintly put it," Sherlock says with enough scorn to melt Dr. Reed's face off. "John Watson is  _everything_ I never knew I wanted. John Watson carries the embodiment of courage and loyalty in every single one of the one hundred and sixty-nine centimeters that make up his deceptively ordinary person.

"I, on the other hand, am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. And, yet, the bravest, and kindest, and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing, has redeemed me by the warmth and constancy of his friendship.

"So, when I say that I have formed an  _unhealthy_ attachment to my best friend, I mean that I have become a hindrance to his happiness, and while happiness is not a state I attempt to achieve on anything like a regular basis, I would do anything within my power to ensure John's happiness."

Sherlock says the last few words so quietly they're almost a whisper. He comes out of his panegyric to find himself sitting against the headboard of his old bed, holding a pillow against his stomach as though it's a trauma dressing and he'll bleed out if he lets it go. It's an apt analogy now that he's thinking about it.

"That was quite a speech," Dr. Reed says, sounding wholly unimpressed. "And I think I might even be persuaded to believe that a few of the things you said were true. For the most part, though, it was utter tosh."

"I beg your pardon!" Sherlock snaps, bristling with indignation.

"Sherlock, PTSD doesn’t make you  _think_ you’re in love with someone. If anything, sufferers of PTSD think they’re not  _worthy_ of love, whether from friends, family, or best friends. You said you've known he was attracted to you for three years, implying that he's been pining for you, but you also used the same language as a wronged partner—you said he was dating  _another_ man, not  _a_ man or  _that_ man, but  _another,_ which implies that you and John had a romantic relationship before you faked your death—  _or,_ that you assumed you were an exception to his _strident heterosexuality_ , as you put it.

"Which is more probable—that your sexual advances have nothing to do with jealousy, but a so-called  _need for safety_ , as you put it, brought on by your PTSD; or that you've been in love with him all along, but you're terrified he won't love you back, so now you're trying to build a defense against what you perceive as rejection on his part.

"It sounds to me like you're hurt, deeply so, because your bloke had the audacity to get over you after he thought you'd died, and you're heartbroken. You sacrificed yourself for his safety, and came home to find he'd left you behind. You can’t blame PTSD for being in love with John. What you  _can_ blame on PTSD, is feeling unworthy, and unlovable. Of feeling like you're  _so bad_ that nobody good could ever love you. You've been through an experience probably nobody else you know will ever understand. You've been violated physically and emotionally. Being a genius doesn't preclude you from the negative results of that.

"So, tell me, Sherlock—what are you  _really_ afraid of?"

~*~

John checks his mobile at least once an hour throughout the day, but Sherlock never texts back. Despite his anger at Sherlock, and the bitter end to his relationship with Gerald, John loves Sherlock more than he's ever loved anyone in his life. Gerald was right—the minute Sherlock walked in the door that night, his relationship with Gerald was over.

In fact, John loves Sherlock with a passion so fierce, it frightens him. Even though his heart is still tender in the wake of his breakup, John _knows_ he wouldn't be able to stop himself if Sherlock initiated another sexual encounter, and that's the last thing Sherlock needs. What Sherlock  _needs_ is a therapist because, other than the day after he came home, he refuses to talk to John about what happened in Serbia, and John knows for a fact that Mycroft has repeatedly broached the subject.

Right as John reaches into his locker in the doctor's lounge to grab his bag and jacket, he gets a text from Sherlock that leaves him staring at his phone, his mouth hanging slightly open in a way Sherlock would have pointed out with blistering disdain if he'd been there.

_I'm going to bed early. Please don't knock on my door. –SH_

~*~

When John gets home that night, the flat feels empty the way it used to after Sherlock died, and John experiences a flash of vertigo trying to collate what John knows intellectually— _Sherlock is alive_ —with how the quiet flat makes him feel—  _Sherlock is dead_.

Despite Sherlock's request, John runs up the stairs to the second floor bedroom, and opens it without even bothering to knock. He finds Sherlock huddled in the corner of the bed, against the wall, with his knees drawn up, and looking miserable. He looks like he's been hit with the flu, and John is immediately on alert.

"What's wrong? Are you sick?" John asks, even as he's climbing onto the bed, one hand trapping Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse, the other hand slipping inside Sherlock's shirt to feel the temperature of his skin.

Sherlock lets out an undignified squeak and tries to wriggle his way out of John's hold. "Go away!" he finally shouts. "I'm  _fine!"_

John pulls away, looking at Sherlock skeptically, but Sherlock just glares back and says  _I'm fine_ again.

"Can we talk?" John asks, collapsing on the bed, the wall at his back, and Sherlock to his left. He draws his knees up and rests his arms on them, his hands hanging loosely.

"There's nothing to talk about," Sherlock says, getting up off the bed. He goes to stand by the desk, looking out of the small window, his arms crossed, his body-language screaming  _Go. Away._

"Yes, there is actually," John says, a nervous flutter in his belly that signals  _hot sex ahead!_ His brain immediately puts up stop signs and barriers  _no there's not!_

"If this is about last night, I apologize for my outburst. There, now you can leave," Sherlock says without looking at John.

"You know," John says conversationally. "I can't remember the last time I told you that you were wrong. Can you?"

Sherlock turns his face, his glittering eyes narrowed and fixed on John's. "I'm never wrong," he says.

"Well, there's a first time for everything!" John says cheerfully. "Because  _you're wrong_."

"About what?" Sherlock asks, drawn in despite himself.

John holds onto the moment a little longer than he knows he should because this will probably be the only chance in his lifetime that he can _prove_ Sherlock wrong, but then he can't wait any longer.

"I do want you," John says, and waits.

"What do you mean,  _you do want me_?" Sherlock asks, the bridge of his nose wrinkling in confusion and irritation.

"You said last night that all this time, you thought I didn't want you because you were a man when it turns out I just didn't want  _you_ ," John says, keeping his body language open, and unthreatening. "And I'm saying  _you're wrong_ because I  _do_ want you."

John sees the hope blossom in Sherlock's eyes before he squashes it down with another furrow of his brow. "Well, of course, you're  _sexually_ attracted—"

"Nope," John says, interrupting him. He shakes his head back and forth slowly while staring at the ceiling. "C'mon, Sherlock, put those mad deductive skills to work."

"What about Gerald?" Sherlock says, bringing his shoulders up in a half shrug, half arrested lunge for the bed. "You've been despondent ever since."

"Yep," John says. "It's sad, breaking up with someone you care about. It'll be a long time before we can repair our friendship."

"But if it weren't for me, you would still be with him!" Sherlock says, throwing his arms out in frustration. He moves closer to the bed, and John thinks  _c'mon, that's it._

"No, see  _that's_ where you're wrong—technically that's  _twice_ you've been wrong, and in one day, too!"

John feels like a bit of an arsehole for the way he's going about this, but Sherlock needs to be drawn in, made to see his own error. That's the only way he'll believe it.

"Well, when you told him about our—wait," Sherlock says slowly, creeping closer to the bed, eyes hooded like they were when he was seeing the things nobody else could. " _He_ wanted to work things out, didn't he? But  _you_ said no. Why'd you say no?" Sherlock kneels on the bed and looms over John.

"Because it turns out, you see, that I'd never stopped being madly and utterly in love with  _you_."

" _John_ ," Sherlock says with such painful yearning that John feels it in the back of his teeth, and along the edges of his shoulders, a shivery feeling. "You  _told_ me I'd sabotaged your relationship! That's what you said!"

"Well, yeah, that's true," John says with a grimace. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm in love with you. Also, I kind of maybe threw that in there just to make the point that you're always sticking your nose in everything. Besides, I always choose you in the end, don't I?"

Sherlock gingerly works his way onto the bed, sitting next to John with his back to the wall. "So you're in love with me?"

"Yes, that's pretty much the whole of it."

"But—you—it wasn't—when— _argh_!" Sherlock finishes with a groan of frustration.

"Hey, settle down," John says, putting his hand on Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock reaches for John and John allows himself to be pulled into Sherlock's arms. He settles between Sherlock's thighs, his back to Sherlock's front, and Sherlock brings his heels up and tucks them between John's knees, while his arms pin John against him.

"Say it," Sherlock whispers, his lips against the nape of John's neck.

"You're wrong," John says, then erupts in laughter until Sherlock pinches his hip.

"No, the other thing," Sherlock says. The tremor in his voice makes John sober up.

"I love you," John says.

"Again."

"I. Love. You."

" _Again_."

"You're. A giant. Prat."

Sherlock gives a particularly long and melodramatic noise of irritation, sounding like a cat trying to cough up a furball.

"So, do you love me back?" John asks, twining his fingers through Sherlock's.

"Yes."

"Well, then, there you go. That's where we start from. All right?"

"Yes," Sherlock says slowly, sniffing sweetly at the skin behind John's ear. "All right."


	18. Sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for tags

**Friday, 12 April 2013**

"I need a shower and food, and then we need to talk," John says, wiggling his way out of Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock groans and slumps against the headboard in annoyance. " _Must_  we? What more needs to be said?"

"C'mon, Sherlock, you know it's not that simple," John says, scooting to the edge of the bed before getting to his feet with a weary groan. "We can't just jump into bed together."

"If you hadn't just gotten  _out_  of the bed, you'd have no need to be jumping back  _in_ , would you?" Sherlock says flatly.

"Oh, ha ha," John deadpans with a pointed look. "Look, I just don't think we're ready to have sex."

Sherlock grabs a pillow and props it behind his head. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, suddenly exhausted. His eyes prick with tears.

He needs to get out of the flat, to work. He needs John, to be  _touched_  by John, _(to be loved by John),_  to feel like going through hell counts as something to John, even though it meant losing Gerald.

Sherlock presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to staunch the tears his traitorous body seems determined to spew out every time he allows himself to  _feel_. He's perpetually dehydrated by the amount of tears he sheds.

(Another gem of Dr. Reed's— _if you feel like crying, go find a private place to do it, and let yourself go. It's like pushing a reset button. Your body is trying to release endorphins, trying to help you overcome the pain. Your brain doesn't know that it's not literal pain, only that you're hurting, and crying will help. You value your mind so highly, so stop getting in the way of your fucking brain trying to heal it.)_

Sherlock isn't particularly thrilled about being in therapy, but he recognizes the need for someone like Dr. Reed to aid in his recovery. He hated every second of the way therapy made him feel today—like he was split open, every insecurity and fear on exhibit.

 _("If you hate therapy, Sherlock,"_  said Dr. Reed after Sherlock said something to that effect that morning.  _"Then you're doing it right.")_

Sherlock feels the bed dip as John sits down near him, and that makes Sherlock's face scrunch up with the effort to keep the tears at bay until he can be alone  _(hide away)_  and let his body push the reset button. (For the third time today). He can practically  _taste_  the concern coming off of John, and in another life he would've sneered at it.

In this life, though, the concern breaks through some of the wall Sherlock is trying to erect to keep John from seeing him cry. It's bad enough that Sherlock spilled all that shit out last night. John already thinks he's broken. He doesn't need any more proof.

John settles his hand on Sherlock's knee, and Sherlock's heart cracks open. The blackness seeps out, every dark bit of it. He closes his eyes against the rush of emotions.

"I don't want to  _talk_  anymore!" Sherlock growls, pushing himself to his knees, and then launches off the bed, and begins to pace. "I want to touch you, and I want you to touch me! It's no longer enough to hear you say you're in love with me, John. I know—well, I can't actually know, personally, what you've given up for me, but I do know that I can't keep paying for the choice I made. I would do it all over again. I would burn my way through the world for you, John! Are those the actions of an unfeeling machine, a man who doesn't know how to love? It does actually hurt, you know—being home finally, having survived, being in your bed every night, my arms wrapped around you, and yet you might as well be halfway across the world again, for all the hope it gives me."

He stops at the window, pauses a moment, trying to rein in his feelings, and finding he can't, not anymore. He feels as fragile and unsure as he did the first night home, when desperation and relief made him take John in hand, knowing it would be the only time John would allow him to break the rules without paying for it later. Oh, but he has after all, hasn't he? Paid for it?

"You think breaking up with Gerald was easy?" John says, his voice rising towards a shout. "Now the obstacle has been overcome and we can fall in bed together,  _oh, and by the way, do you prefer to top or bottom_? I feel like I don't know you anymore! I keep expecting you to suddenly wake up as your old self, and then I'll be relegated to the sidekick position again. What happens when you're taking cases again, when you have your puzzles and mysteries to solve?"

"You have no idea how much I want you," Sherlock says, his voice hoarse with frustration and desire. "And just so we're clear, you were  _never_  just my sidekick. You have always been my  _partner_ , and I want that with you in every sense of the word."

"I don't know how to trust you," John says, and pulls his lips in over his teeth. He shakes his head, and Sherlock watches in dismay as John gets off the bed and makes for the door.

"You wanted me to find a therapist? Well, I did—Mycroft did." Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "I spent hours on the phone today with my new therapist  _talking_ about my  _experience_ —" The word is spit out of his mouth, a bad taste he can never really rinse away. "Having my psyche picked apart. I assure you, Dr. Reed is not that same gentle breed of therapist as yours. He's ruthless. I've been splayed open. I'm  _exhausted_." His breath hitches, and he tries to swallow, but can't. Panic almost sets in, as he wills his throat to do its job. Finally, it does, and he drags in a shuddering breath. He points an accusing finger at John, who flinches slightly even though Sherlock is across the room. "And I've spent twenty-four hours thinking that—" Sherlock hauls in a painful lungful of air, "—thinking that you didn't love me after all, and trying to find a reason to go on anyway.

"You have always walked the fence between being a  _good_  boy, and wanting to be a  _bad_ boy—the  _bit not good_  boy. I won't walk that line with you, John. I  _refuse_  to. I pander to clients and the public at large—I have allowed Mycroft to lock me away in the flat, to let the members of New Scotland Yard, and shadowy government agencies have control of my so-called return to polite society, have agreed to be imprisoned in my  _own home_  after thirty days of imprisonment in a freezing Serbian cell, and all of it— _all of it!_ —for you! If it were just me, do you think I would  _care_  about my fucking reputation? If it were just me, as much as I love London, there are other cities in the world who could use my particular talents."

"You've always just taken what you wanted. Why am I any different?" John says with a pained, disbelieving laugh. He throws his arms wide in challenge, and then brings his hands in to tap roughly at his chest. "You want me? Well, here I am! Take me!"

That draws Sherlock up short, and for a moment his face echoes his hesitance, but then he takes three long steps, wraps his fingers around John's precious head, and captures John's bottom lip between his own.

_We are evolutionarily and psycho-socially designed to enjoy kissing._

Sherlock's tongue slips just inside the heat of John's mouth, sliding along the inside of his teeth, down the smooth, wet skin of his cheek before their tongues catch on each other. John's fists his left hand in Sherlock's white button down, and his other hand plows through Sherlock's still-too-short hair. Sherlock drags his hands down John's sides, and around to the small of his back, and lets the fingers of his right hand flirt with the edge of John's scrub bottoms.

_There are up to eighty billion bacteria that can be passed between two people sharing a kiss._

Sherlock has never particularly liked the intimacy of kissing. But  _John_ —it seems as though Sherlock has thought of nothing else for days, that maybe if he added up all the time over the last three years he looked at or remembered John's thin, quick to grin lips, he would discover that weeks of his life have been devoted to nothing else.

_Despite the fact that we kiss with our mouths, our sense of smell is stimulated more during a kiss than our sense of taste._

John comes home carrying the scent of London with him, the smell of hospital, the Tube, blood, exhaust. He usually showers as soon as he gets home, but Sherlock prefers John like this—smelling of the city they love, the heartbeat they share—and from this moment on, the memory of this, their first  _true_  kiss, will always flutter in his consciousness with the first breath he takes outside.

_Even light stimulation of the lips releases dopamine, serotonin, norepinephrine, and oxytocin, and causes adrenaline levels to spike as well._

Their kiss quickly descends into a frantic clash of teeth and tongue while their hands grip, and stroke, trying to delete any space between their bodies. In one whirling motion, Sherlock turns them around, drops to the bed, and tugs John onto his lap, his knees on either side of Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock reaches down and unties John's scrub bottoms, then slips his hand inside, his eyes never leaving John's face.

 _"Fuck,"_  John gasps when Sherlock drags his knuckles lightly along his erection. " _Christ_ , I thought you'd be—"

_The lips have more nerve endings than the female clitoris and the male frenulum._

"You thought I'd be—" Sherlock prompts. He opens his mouth against the underside of John's exposed jaw, poised as though to bite down, but instead he just scissors his teeth up the edge of John's jawbone, until he nibbles against the skin beneath John's ear.

John shivers, and does the little head shake again. "Virginal, I guess. Inexperienced."

"No," Sherlock chuckles darkly. "Quite experienced. Would you like to hear all the filthy things I want to do to you?"

John licks his lips and nods. Sherlock sucks on John's throat and continues to lightly tease John's cock with his fingers as he speaks.

"I want to work lube into your hole, opening it up for me so that when I breach your body, you can hear the slick squelch as my cock stretches the walls of your rectum, making way for me. I love a slow, filthy fuck, to make it last long enough that we need another round of lube. I want to bend you in half, and fuck you so hard that a grunt is forced out of you every time I drive my hips forward and split your body with my cock."

Sherlock slides his hands slowly inside the back of John's scrubs and digs his fingers into John's arse, spreading his cheeks slightly when he pulls John roughly into him. John groans, and widens his legs eagerly. Sherlock raises his hips up to grind his pelvis against John's. They both moan, and Sherlock whispers  _fuck_ three times, his eyes slipping shut with pleasure, willing himself not to throw John onto his knees and fuck him. John's tongue licks over Sherlock's Adam's apple, and he gasps.

"What else?" John murmurs against Sherlock's throat.

"I want to undress you slowly, my lips, and tongue, and teeth working their way from your mouth down to your neck, and then your chest, but no lower, at least not yet. I'll use the time spent undressing you to pour my love for you into every kiss and caress. When you try to hurry things along, I'll slow you down, but when I finally remove our clothes, it won't be love I'm thinking of. Our height difference makes it too unwieldy for me to take you on your hands and knees, but I'll work you open in that position, and then I'll lie down on my back, and watch you pant and grunt and wince at the burn as you work yourself down onto my cock. I'll let you set the pace at first, but then I'll put my feet flat on the bed, grasp one half of your arse in each hand, and thrust myself into you, spreading your arse cheeks so I can get in as deep as possible. You'll come first, and then I'll pull out and roll you back onto your hands and knees, and make you spread yourself open for me, and you will, even though it means your face is smashed uncomfortably into the mattress. When you've got them spread as wide as you can, I'll jack myself while staring at your hole, the rim red and puffy and slightly gaping, aiming my dick so that when I come, I'll paint your hole with my semen. I'll make you keep yourself spread open so I can watch my cum drip from your arsehole to your balls, and then I'll lick it off, balls first before burying my face between your cheeks to make sure I lick you clean."

" _Jesus_ ," John moans.

Sherlock hums deep in his chest. For a moment, they're content to kiss and rock their pelvises together, but after a while, it stops being enough and starts feeling uncomfortable. 

“I hate to break the mood, but I have to get my trousers off or my cock is going to be permanently damaged by my zipper," Sherlock says, sucking in a breath through his teeth when John bites his lip and grinds down several more times, drawing heavy groans out of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock glares at him, and John laughs, then rolls off of Sherlock. By the time, Sherlock has stood up, and unzipped his trousers, John has shimmied his way out of his scrubs, and has his thumbs hooked in his pants. Sherlock surges forward to stop him.

"Not yet," he says absently, his trousers momentarily forgotten as his eyes roam over John's body before lifting them back to John's face. Sherlock takes off his own clothes with quick efficiency. He leaves his pants on, and climbs onto the bed next to John.

"Tell me what you want," Sherlock says, lowering his head to lick along the waistband of John's pants. "You can have anything you want from me."

"How are your ribs?" John asks, slightly breathless.

Sherlock dips his tongue inside John's pants and tongues the hole at the top of John's penis, then swirls once around his glans. John's hips lift up off the bed. Sherlock sits back and opens his mouth to speak.

"Don't lie to me," John says gravely. "I expect you to keep the promise you made not to lie to me."

Sherlock sighs in annoyance. "They ache," he admits reluctantly.

"Thought so. And you can't hold yourself above me for long with that shoulder, either."

Sherlock makes a dismissive sound, but nods in acknowledgement, before sitting down next to John. "You can fuck me on my back. Or I can be on top."

"That's not—I'm not comfortable having anal sex with you. Just yet," says John with a grimace.

"Why not?" Sherlock asks, genuinely confused. Then he realizes what John's talking about, and scrubs his face with his hands. "Right."

"I just don't want to trigger any—"

"I understand," Sherlock rushes to say. And he does understand, but he doesn't have to like it.

John gets to his knees and sits back on his heels. His erection is a fat bulge at the front of his dark grey pants.

"Besides, what I really want to do is suck you," John says, his eyes dark with lust. A blush stains his ears, and spreads down to his face and chest. "And then I want you to come on my face."

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry, his heart kicks up a dozen extra beats per minute, and his mind fizzles pathetically. He is adept at talking dirty, and has been the recipient of it as well, but he's never heard anything as erotic as John Watson telling him,  _And then I want you to come on my face._

"Oh. Hm. Ah, hm," he says, and then rolls his eyes at his own stuttering stupidity. He’s always assumed sex with John would incapacitate his higher powers of thought, but he hadn't considered it would reduce him to a pre-verbal state.

John smirks and raises his eyebrow as he gets off the bed. "The condoms are downstairs," he says.

"Of course," Sherlock says, nodding his head aggressively, his cheeks flushing slightly in embarrassment. His one month blood panel has come back clean, but John is well within his rights to request condoms for as long as he needs to feel safe. It still stings, though, and reminds him unhappily of the reason why they're needed in the first place.

"Sherlock," John says, stopping half in and half out of Sherlock's bedroom door, his hand on the door jamb. "I want so much to feel you in my mouth without a latex barrier."

"It's fine, John," Sherlock says with feigned boredom.

"Yes, but nonetheless," John says. Then he nods, slaps the door jamb once in a very masculine way, and disappears down the hall.

Sherlock can hear him moving quickly down the narrow back stairs, what was a servants' staircase when the house was built. It was walled off sometime in the 1960s, but he had it opened back up shortly after John moved in with him so that John didn't have to traipse down the main stairs in his robe and slippers every morning. He said he worried Mrs. Hudson would pop out of her flat and get an eyeful of his  _meat and two veg_ if she looked up. Sherlock had snorted at John's description of his penis in terms of food, but found it secretly endearing, and a very middle-class thing to say.

John pounds back up the stairs and down the hall. "Condoms!" he crows triumphantly, and throws the box on the bed.

Sherlock picks it up, and turns it over in his hands. "These are for oral sex."

"Ye-es," John says, eyebrows lifted in a question.

"I, um, so you bought these with me in mind?" Sherlock asks, waiting for John to sneer and say  _obviously,_  and he rushes to speak. "I meant, you wouldn't have been comfortable having unprotected sex with me—including oral—until my three month blood panel came back, which means you bought these assuming we would be having sex soon."

"Well, within the next two months," John says, his lips tipping up on one side. Sherlock can see him holding in his amusement.

"So, even though you were  _grieving_  over, um—" Sherlock makes a vague spinning gesture with his hand.

"Gerald," John provides, no longer trying to hide his amusement.

"Yes. Yes, thank you. So, you in fact—"

"Yes, Sherlock," John says, trying to school his features into something more solemn and failing miserably. "Despite everything standing in our way, I'd hoped to get my lips wrapped around your knob sooner or later, preferably sooner."

"Oh," Sherlock says, sitting up straighter, pleased with himself, though there isn't a logical reason to be.

"Did you think I didn't want you?" John asks, his voice no longer laughing, his brows drawing together in puzzlement.

"I didn't think you wanted me  _now_ , I mean not—not  _now_ , as in today, because obviously you want me  _now_. I just thought, you didn't want me  _yet_. Before today."

"Sherlock," John says softly, shaking his head slightly as he sits on the bed next to him. He takes the box of condoms out of Sherlock's unresisting hands, and takes both of his hands so all four are wrapped up together. "I've never stopped wanting you, no more than I stopped loving you. In fact, I've had to remind myself many times of your injuries so that I could maintain the proper distance, not just as your doctor, but because you're always so deceptively self-assured. And then, also, like I said—breaking up with Gerald was hard, but it's not stopped me wanting you."

Sherlock, feeling lighter, but still deeply touched, ducks his head and swallows back the emotion that threatens to overwhelm him. It was illogical to assume John felt otherwise, and yet Sherlock had, spending the last month feeling like a cold, distant moon orbiting a bright star, never getting closer, just spinning uselessly around.

John puts the box of condoms behind them on the bed, and slides to the floor on his knees. Sherlock's lost more than half of his erection during the past ten minutes, but the sight of John kneeling between his legs is enough to remind his brain where to shunt some blood.

John keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock and gradually leans forward, letting his tongue slip out of his mouth incrementally, wetting his lips, reminding Sherlock of a slow motion film. Sherlock's hips strain upward even though he's gripping the mattress and imagining his arse sinking into it, in order to avoid smacking John in the face with his clothed erection.

John trails his nose down Sherlock's cock through his pants, burying his nose into the crease of Sherlock's thigh. He closes his eyes, and pulls in a deep, shuddering inhalation, moaning hoarsely. Sherlock's mouth falls open, and something shockingly like a whimper escapes him. John chuckles breathily and then uses the flat of his tongue to move even further down, against the underside of Sherlock's balls, and then he licks back up between them, and then around each individual testicle, and finally up to the root of his cock. Sherlock's breathing is uneven, and his knuckles ache from digging his hands into the mattress. His arse cheeks are clenched tightly together. In fact, his whole body is wound tight as a spring. John stiffens his tongue and brushes it in a zigzag pattern all the way up to the tip of Sherlock's penis, which he suckles gently through the damp cotton of Sherlock's pants.

Sherlock considers sending Gerald a bouquet of flowers, because no matter how jealous of the man he's been (and he has been  _so_  jealous), he can't help but feel deeply grateful to Gerald for teaching John how to suck cock. The entirety of the front of Sherlock's pants is soaked with John's saliva. A breathy, barely-there moan rides each of Sherlock's exhales. He's so embarrassingly close to finishing, and he hasn't even taken off his pants! He tries to remember the last time he had an orgasm, and vaguely recalls several nights of debauchery in Abu Dhabi about nine months ago. Surely, he brought himself off at some point in the intervening time, but he honestly can't recall. Once he entered eastern Europe, it was night after day after night of little sleep, food snatched and eaten on the go, contacts and safe houses increasingly few and far between until the thirteenth of February when—

"Look. At. Me."

John's voice has the power of a slap in the face to drag Sherlock back to the present, and Sherlock does exactly as John says—he looks. John slips his hand into Sherlock's pants and readjusts his erection so that it lies up against his stomach, and then puts Sherlock's pants to rights, leaving the head of his erection exposed. There's something obscene about having just the tip of it exposed, but then John pulls the leg opening of Sherlock's pants to the side, and gently tugs one testicle out through the opening, and gives new meaning to  _obscene_. He rocks back on his heels, and smiles at Sherlock, preening.

"I'm tempted to take a snap with my phone," John says, absently running the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip.

Sherlock starts to say something sarcastic such as  _you know, smoldering gazes do not actually cause spontaneous orgasm in the recipient_  but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is a croak, and he gives up trying to speak in favor of encouraging his mouth to produce enough saliva to wet his parched throat.

Apparently done admiring his handiwork at Sherlock's groin, John reaches behind him and snags the box of condoms. He opens the box, and pulls out a strip, rips one off, and peels it open. Then, to Sherlock's confusion, pops it into his mouth, where it disappears. He leans forward, and pulls back the waistband of Sherlock's pants, takes the head of Sherlock's penis between thumb and forefinger, and his mouth takes Sherlock down all the way to his balls in one tight, smooth motion. Sherlock yelps and his hips thrust up slightly before John holds them down. It's only when John bobs back up does Sherlock realize what happened to the condom.

"Neat," Sherlock groans, his voice almost unrecognizable. "The thing with the— _ahem_ —condom."

John smiles around Sherlock's dick, which is stained green through the thin material of the condom, and Sherlock wants to make a zombie joke, but John's tongue is somehow working its way underneath Sherlock's foreskin  _through_  the condom, and the ephemerous thought is discarded by his brain as being unimportant. In fact, his brain is rapidly shedding all coherent thought not related to John, John's mouth, and what John and his mouth are doing to Sherlock's dick.

"I'm not—"  _going to last long_ , Sherlock tries to say, but it's lost in a groan as John pulls the waistband of his pants under his balls, and then sucks each testicle into his mouth, poking his tongue at them, a vulgar bulge in his cheek.  _That's my nut_ , Sherlock thinks and tries not to laugh hysterically.

John looks up at Sherlock, his eyes dark and wet, his lips swollen, saliva trailing from his mouth to Sherlock's sheathed cock and back to John's chin in a skinny triangle of spit that catches the light, and Sherlock has a brief vision of John wearing nothing but Sherlock's Belstaff and red high heels, but his brain gets rid of that thought, too, as Sherlock's orgasm begins to gather in his groin. He recalls John's request that Sherlock come on his face, but in an uncharacteristic fit of shyness, decides not to remind him.

John, it turns out, needs no reminding. He yanks the condom off of Sherlock's cock, flicks it onto the floor, and then takes it in hand, his thumb and forefinger teasing Sherlock's foreskin. Sherlock's toes begin to curl, and his arse clenches, while his hips try to thrust his cock into a nonexistent hole. John sits back on his knees, tilts his face up to the ceiling, exposing the whole long column of his throat, and his thumb and forefinger go up, down, up again, and  _twist_ , and Sherlock bows forward with the force of his orgasm.

John closes his eyes and lips, and blindly seeks Sherlock's penis, and Sherlock cries out at the sight of John trying to position his face to catch Sherlock's cum. His body convulses, and the almost violent power of the orgasm tears through his nervous system. He shoots semen onto John's nose and cheek, then chin, throat, and the last sputtering dribbles land on his chest.

Sherlock realizes he's chanting a combination of  _John_  and  _ohmygod_  and  _oh fuck_  over and over again, his body shuddering with a pleasure so extreme it almost feels as though it's happening to someone else. John opens his eyes, and looks up at Sherlock. A drop of cum slips off his chin, and Sherlock stares at his gorgeous  _face_ , and realizes he needs to kiss him  _right fucking now_ , so he lowers his head to do so.

John reaches up, grinning with pride, semen sliding down his cheek to meet up with the bit on his chin, and puts his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. He pulls, guiding Sherlock down into the kiss, but when Sherlock feels the pressure on the back of his head, he stiffens abruptly, every muscle seizing, fear rocketing along his nerves and obliterating the warm pleasure that came before it.

For one shivering moment, Sherlock holds onto reality by trying to tip his consciousness over and into the warmth of John's eyes, whose eyebrows have just drawn together in confusion before he and everything around him blinks out of existence to be replaced with cold concrete, a sinister voice, and terror made all the more razor sharp by the joy and love that went before it.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sexual content  
> Explicit sexual language  
> Sherlock begins to have a flashback at the end off the chapter


	19. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags in end notes

**Friday, 12 April 2013**

Sherlock stiffens almost as soon as John lays his hand on the back of his neck. John's mind and body are moving slow and heavy with lust, and it seems like there's a moment when John could have stopped the flashback by removing his hand, but the time between realizing what he needs to do and executing the action might as well be none at all. John yanks his hand back, but he's already lost Sherlock.

Sherlock is shaking—John watches dumbly, overwhelmed by the nerve-jangling, gut-punch switch from hot sex to nightmare.

For ninety seconds, he watches Sherlock, but Sherlock's eyes stare right through him, even though they appear to be tracking something behind him, and John turns around as though something is actually _there_ , still half-convinced he's imagining things. Sherlock just _came_ , less than a minute ago, and John still as an _erection_ , for fuck's sake!

For ninety seconds, John watches as Sherlock pulls his lips in over his teeth, and it's not until later, when red tinged saliva is dripping from his mouth to his chin that John realizes Sherlock has bitten deep into the flesh of the inside of his lips. John hasn't seen a flashback like this—not this rigid, bone-grinding terror, the absolutely still way Sherlock holds his body while still shaking hard enough for his teeth to chatter, as though he's trying to hide himself _(like a small, wounded thing)_ . Suddenly his head jerks down, his shoulders hunched around his neck as though _(someone is holding him down by the back of his neck oh my god)_ and John's gut twists and he thinks _ninety seconds makes the difference between life and death_ and manages to grab the bin under the desk and duck his head inside before he vomits.

Something besides nausea sits heavy and _wrong_ in his gut. In Afghanistan, on the streets of London, at the pool with Moriarty, John did not/would not/would not have _ever_ hesitated for ninety fucking seconds. For all intents and purposes, this man is his responsibility, and he has just left him open and vulnerable on the battlefield for _ninety fucking seconds_ , watching—stupid and paralyzed—as Sherlock's reality shatters around him. Sherlock looks feral, snarling, hunched into himself, defiance and terror cozy bedfellows in his eyes, like they're _used_ to being there, like being terrified is a natural state of being. And it is _not_ a natural state of being, not for Sherlock, no—not anymore.

That's when Captain John Watson lurches to his feet, pulls on his discarded scrub bottoms, uses Sherlock's shirt to wipe Sherlock's cum off his face, and turns on the overhead light, the other lamp, and opens the door, and then _slams_ it as hard as he can. (And hopes to hell Mrs. Hudson does not come up here _to find out what you boys are getting up to_.)

It takes fourteen seconds from the moment that John gets to his feet to the moment he slams the door, and then he is standing in front of Sherlock, and he's doing the only thing he can think to do. If this evil memory is strong enough to capture Sherlock in its grip, then John's grip will be stronger. This man is his responsibility. This man is _his_.

 _"Holmes, you will stand at attention in the presence of your commanding officer!"_ he bellows. _"You will get to your feet this instant!"_

John's body eases into this skin the way he used to ease his way into a woman's body, the way he used to ease his hand into someone's guts to save their life because it was what he _did_ . It was all he knew. _This_ , his body says, _is what we know how to do when ninety seconds is the difference between life and death._

"John, _run_ , he's behind you, and I'm broken too tired and sad to save you." Sherlock's voice wavers, thick and foggy, and John sees the streamers of bloody saliva that bubble up out of Sherlock's lips as his voice shivers and jumps and his body shakes, and John wants to kneel in front of Sherlock, and pull him into his arms, and brush his thick, beautiful hair off his beautiful, gorgeous, sweaty forehead, and wipe the bloody saliva away with gentle fingers, and hold him in his arms, and rock him, because this man is _his_. But—it is the absolute last fucking thing that will help.

"There will be no running away. Now, I told you to stand _so why are you still sitting on your arse, soldier?_ " John's voice rises out of him on flames, and his throat burns, and his heart burns, and his eyes burn, and moisture drips onto John's cheeks.

Sherlock's eyes lift to John's face, and John's knees almost buckle with relief at seeing the recognition there, and now the urge to hold Sherlock is even stronger, but he can't, not yet.

"John," Sherlock murmurs weakly, his teeth clicking together, so that John's name comes out sounding _Jawv-va-vah-van_.

"I told you to stand. Can you?" John asks, firmly, but gently.

Sherlock's shivering so bad that when he shakes his head it isn't immediately evident, but when it is, John says, "Well, then. I'll just have to carry you downstairs."

"N-n-n-no," Sherlock says. "Kah-kah-can in m-m-moment. Si-si-sit. Puh-please."

The _please_ tacked on the end, like he needs to _ask_ John to sit with him while he gets his legs under himself after reliving being raped in a Serbian prison in the middle of winter, puts a crack in John's glued-together heart.

John says, "Okay," managing not to sound like he's crying (though he is, shamelessly). "I'm going to cover you up with this duvet behind you, look at my hands, see? They're moving behind you, and this duvet right here—look, Sherlock, please—okay it's coming up behind you now, over your shoulders, and there you go." John crouches in front of him, tucking the duvet in, only letting himself stay connected to Sherlock through a single point of contact—his hand cupped lightly against Sherlock's knee. (Like it fucking matters—like they aren't already connected at a cellular level, but it makes John feel better, dammit).

John knows this next part, because he's seen it after every flashback—the transition from threat-alert-maximum-red-blaring-klaxon-defcon-five-times-a-hundred, to _after_ , when Sherlock's neuro-hormonal levels bottom out, and he sinks into a sort of pliant lassitude, with a narrow window of maybe twenty minutes where he can still move under his own steam, but only just. This is, ironically, the time when John has to _hustle_ even though all he wants to do is sink down onto the bed with Sherlock and sleep for about a hundred and fifty fucking years, because after the transition window, Sherlock becomes semi-catatonic, as though everything is reaching him through several layers of reality and really fucking bad wi-fi, and once he catalogues the correct response/reaction, he has to send it back, and John can become a _slight_ bit impatient with the glacial progression of time during that part of the flashback recovery process.

John watches until Sherlock stops shaking, and then the dip of Sherlock's head, as he says _sorry_ in a very small voice, and John reacts so vehemently that alarm sparks in Sherlock's eyes, and John has to pull himself back and slow down and cool off.

"Don't ever—please," John says, swallowing around the great aching pain in his chest where another crack has appeared in his glued-together heart. "Do not _ever_ apologize to me for taking care of you. Yeah? Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock nods, and John sets the Transition Time countdown to twenty minus zero minutes and counting.

He gets Sherlock downstairs, and the both of them in the shower, and washes them clean of all the bodily fluids—blood, saliva, vomit, _semen_ . John washes Sherlock's hair because _(yes, okay, Gerald, turns out I_ do _have a hair kink)_ and he's wanted to wash this mad bastard's hair for about a million years, and he's damn well going to take advantage. A humming rumble starts in Sherlock's chest and vibrates against John's skin like pebbles falling against glass, and John thinks of a wiry, tetchy tomcat that comes around for five years, spitting and hissing every time you try to show it any affection before it lets you domesticate it, and then takes all of five minutes to become a lazy, fat housecat that sits in your lap and demands your attention every time you dare to look busy with something else.

 _That_ , John thinks, _is precisely what loving Sherlock feels like._

John gets them clean and dries them off. Looks at the inside of Sherlock's lips, and makes him brush his teeth even though Sherlock bitches and moans about it, which John pretends is all exaggerated, even though John knows it stings like hell. When John gives him a glass of water, Sherlock drinks it, but by the time they make it to the bedroom, both of them still naked, Sherlock collapses on the bed, and almost slides off before John catches him, his lower back straining with the effort to push Sherlock back off the edge. When John pushes himself to his feet, the muscles of his lower back feel like they're trying to strain the _opposite_ way, and John knows he won't be able to get around comfortably for a few days without cocodamol.

John hasn't even gotten them into pajamas, and he looks at his phone on the dresser, knowing it hasn't been twenty minutes yet, and sure enough—it's only been eleven. John looks back at the half-slumped, half-sitting form of Sherlock, and John thinks the fact that Sherlock had an orgasm, and _then_ had a flashback has really tapped out his body. John knows he'll call into work the next morning to stay home with Sherlock and keep an eye on him.

John chivvies and nags Sherlock into getting into a more comfortable sleeping position, and foregoes pajamas for the night. They're both exhausted, and it really feels like a stupid thing to be worried about. He slides into his side of the bed, and turns towards Sherlock to find Sherlock staring at him in an almost cartoonishly sappy way. There might be teddy bears with hearts for eyes dancing over his head. He tenderly caresses John's cheek, and murmurs something John thinks might be praise for his oral sex technique, but sounds like _speck-tackler head_ . It's this _so_ tender and sweet compliment from Sherlock, who nobody would believe capable of this kind of loving gesture, who _John_ once thought incapable, that puts the last crack in John's glued together heart, reminding him of how he felt when Sherlock first came home, in those moments when he could see that Sherlock felt a little dead inside, and tried so hard to mask it, and John felt so fucking helpless, he thought his chest might cave in, that it might be _literally_ unbearable to feel that helpless.

"Do you know how much I love you?" John asks softly. The stupid tears are back.

"Ye-es," Sherlock says, drawing the word out, emphasizing the _s_ sound. He smiles drunkenly, his eyes blinking long and slow, before drawling, " _Obviously_."

That drags a soggy chuckle out of John, and Sherlock's smile is soft and sweet and childishly pleased.

John's jaw clenches as he feels hurt trying to spill out of him and he tries to stop it, but it's already out. "I loved you, and you broke me when you left, and I glued myself back together, and then you came back, and broke me all over again, and now I don't work right without you,” John says softly, quickly, feeling feverish with exhaustion and too many goddamned feelings for one man to handle in the space of a few hours. "No, that's not—not true."

John can't hide from the truth that he stashed inside his heart before he glued it back together the first time, a million years ago, watching a gorgeous, brilliant, mad bastard throw himself off the roof of the hospital where John learned how to save people's lives. It's the same  truth that he felt a million years ago lying on Sherlock's grave (when he thought it was _actually_ Sherlock's grave) and wanted to lie there until he died, too, and his bones sank into the ground to lie with Sherlock's bones because he couldn't imagine trying to live with a Sherlock shaped wound in his world.

John looks at Sherlock looking softly, sleepily back, waiting for the truth.

"The truth is that I didn't work right until I met you, and maybe that's not what other people think about when they think of love, but I only work right when I'm with you, even when I want to throw you off a roof myself, and I couldn't possibly in a million years _not_ know how to love you forever."

"S'very kind of you t'say so," Sherlock says, his voice stretching the words out like taffy. His eyebrows go up and down as he tries, and fails, to keep his eyes open. John laughs weakly, knowing Sherlock won't remember his love confession, and that it's probably okay because John knows what's true, finally. The truth feels like kissing Sherlock, his tongue in Sherlock's mouth sliding together, literally hot and so fucking hot metaphorically. It feels like holding Sherlock's cock in his hand, the smooth, hot, soft, skin over hard, _hard_ blood and lust sliding into John's mouth. It feels like barking an order at Sherlock to bring him back to the Sherlock shaped space in John's bones where he _belongs_ , where he will be loved. It feels like home, and _right_ , and an awful lot like healing.

"Sleep, my love," John whispers, brushing away another round of tears off of his own face with a brisk swipe of the back of his hand, and then brushing sooty, damp curls off Sherlock's forehead.

"Closer," Sherlock rumbles.

"What?"

Sherlock's hand stretches out towards John's arm, and lands—warm and dry and alive _alive_ —and tugs. John's momentarily overwhelmed by uncertainty, lying naked in bed with the man he loves— _his_ man—with every last whatever-it's-worth piece of himself buried way down in Sherlock's bones. _I gave him really fantastic head, and he came, but then I touched his neck, and he had a flashback of being raped, but the cuddle was totally consensual, officer, I swear it!_ John thinks feverishly and giggles once, high and breathy.

Sherlock tugs again, and John follows, moving closer, then closer still until they're breathing each other's air, and Sherlock pats his arm.

"Sleep," Sherlock whispers, his eyes closed, his eyelashes making smudged shadows on his cheeks. "M'love."

John's breath catches painfully, and it's a long, long while before John stops breathing very carefully through his mouth, weeping as silently as he can, improbably joyful for a man with a broken heart. _No, not a broken heart,_ John realizes with a shuddering gasp of relief. _A broken_ open _heart_. Truth has escaped and is hell bent on running wild in John's life, and John will let it, he'll even help it wreak havoc. Tomorrow. A great, jaw-cracking yawn hits him over the head right before sleep steals what's left of the day away.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tag: description of Sherlock's flashback of being raped, not graphic in my opinion, and if you lived through the chapter called "Serbia," you'll live through this.


	20. Torch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants to fuck John. Thousands of shippers go, "Hey! That's my plot!"

**Saturday, 13 April 2013**

_John grabs Sherlock by the shoulders, and slams him into the wall then smashes their mouths together. It's not a kiss—there's more tongue and teeth than lips, but it's not the kiss that matters. It's the heat flooding through John's body while Sherlock sucks on his tongue and writhes sinuously against him, groaning his name._

You don't know what I want to do to you _, John hisses._

Tell me _, Sherlock growls against the bottom of his jaw._

I'll show you instead, _John says._

_He and Sherlock are naked and John bends him over the living room desk. He marvels at the long, pale expanse of Sherlock's back, and his eyes trail from Sherlock's broad shoulders down to his narrow waist, the flushed swell of his buttocks. Sherlock spreads his thighs, and gives John a glimpse of his heavily wrinkled testicles, tucked up against his body, and his erect penis, the foreskin drawn back behind the darkened head of his cock._

_John's eyes travel back up Sherlock's body, from cock to balls to arse to back, but something makes him stop there. His eyes roam over Sherlock's back. Something is missing, and he bends slightly to look, but the room is suddenly plunged into shadow, night falling abruptly outside the flat's windows. He bends close to peer at Sherlock's back, leaning over him, his front pressing against Sherlock's back. Sherlock stiffens then, but John stills him with a hand on the back of his neck. Sherlock struggles, and John watches his body trying to twist out of John's grip with confusion. John strokes his side, and quietly says,_ Settle down _, but Sherlock begins to wail rhythmically, his body gone rigid underneath John's—_

~*~

 ****John wakes up, his body frozen, covered in a slick sheen of sweat, his chest heaving, and lungs trying to suck in more air. He reaches for his phone to silence the alarm, and sits up, feeling sluggish. That's when he realizes he's alone, and the flat is ominously silent. He's naked, and last night comes rushing back—a flash of terror flooding his body with a burst of adrenaline, and he finally understands the source of his nightmare.

He jumps out of bed calling Sherlock's name. John's heart feels like a rock being slammed against the cage of bones protecting it as though it thinks itself a prisoner. It feels like it might pulverize his bones in the end, and a flash of memory blinds him—him, curled on his side on the freshly overturned soil of Sherlock's grave. It hits him, like running into a wall, that all those times he had lain on the ground for hours, thinking it was Sherlock's body beneath him, there was only dirt that went down, down, down to the rocky surface of the earth, instead of cradling the body of the man who had dashed his head on the pavement outside St. Bart's, and took everything that mattered to John—everything that would ever matter to John—with him.

(And then it occurs to him that perhaps it had been someone else's _(Moriarty's)_ body he'd lain on, and he bends over with one foot on the first riser of the back staircase, and slams his hand against the wall to steady himself, and tells himself not to think about it ever again because it's in the past and Sherlock is _alive_ and that's all that matters.)

John finds Sherlock upstairs in the second-floor bedroom sitting motionless on the edge of the bed. He's pulled on pajama bottoms, but his back is bare, and the raised pink lines of his still healing scars remind John of his dream, and he shudders. He stands in front of Sherlock who's staring at the floor, holding his hands limply in his lap, and waits without speaking, keeping his distance.

Finally Sherlock speaks, his voice without inflection, distant. "I woke up this morning, naked and curled around you, and was blissfully happy, until I realized some of the flesh on the inside of my lips was torn and aching, and that I had no clear memory of what happened I—after we—"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, it was my fault—"

Sherlock shoots to his feet, sneering, and bites out, "How is it your fault, _John_?"

"I shouldn't have—"

"You shouldn't have _what_?" Sherlock asks, stalking towards him, and as Sherlock herds him towards a wall, he feels suddenly vulnerable in his nudity. He holds up his hands, and stuttering, says, "I, I sh—shouldn't ha-have let myself—" His back is pressed against the wall, and Sherlock looms over him, and when he raises his hand, John flinches, and Sherlock jerks back, away from him and paces over to the window.

The encounter leaves him wrong-footed, guilt like hot lead pooling through his limbs, and when he can speaks again, he asks, "Why don't you come downstairs?"

"Why?" Sherlock asks in the dull voice he used before he got up from the bed, and John says, "Because—" and stops. He swallows and tries again. "Let me make us some tea, and breakfast. I'd already planned to call in to work so we—"

"Don't bother," Sherlock says, suddenly rushing across the room to the door where he stops, his feet planted inside the doorway, but his upper body swaying towards the stairs, and, barely turning his head to the side, says, "I have things to do. You'll just be in that way."

John can't get his thoughts together—between the dream and his encounter with Sherlock, it feels like he's woken up to a different reality. His broken open heart wants to erect a barrier around itself, but one of them has to stay open, so he goes downstairs into his bedroom, and grabs some pajama bottoms and a t-shirt out of his dresser, and pulls them on. In the kitchen, he fills the kettle, settles it back into the heating coil, and flicks it on. He gets out two mugs, and two tea bags (Twinings, because Sherlock's a snob, and the Tetley John drank for eighteen months no longer passes muster). While the kettle heats up, he pulls eggs, tomatoes, Gruyère, and spring onions out of the fridge. He leans out to catch a glimpse of Sherlock on the couch.

"Do you want an omelet?" John asks, and Sherlock ignores him. Sighing with frustration, John makes his own omelet, only one cup of tea, and eats in silence. Then, he showers, grabs his bag, phone, and keys, and leaves without saying goodbye.

~*~

When Dr. Reed calls for their appointment Saturday morning, Sherlock fights back the urge to lie, to say everything's fine, that he and John are getting along. Instead, he tells the truth—about John saying they weren't ready for sex, the impassioned speech Sherlock gave, John's offer to take him. The sex. The flashback.

The blurred memory of after the flashback, though he doesn't tell Dr. Reed that, not yet. Not when all his guts feel like they're spilling out, and anything other than _John_ seems impossible to contemplate.

"How can people _stand it?"_ Sherlock says, finally, pacing from the sitting room through the kitchen, into the bedroom, and back out again.

"Stand what?"

" _Love,"_ Sherlock spits, like it's a dirty word. "It _hurts_ . I never know if I'm coming or going! I'm forthright, and honest, and, yet, he seems to think I need to be handled like—like— _handled_ ! He thinks I need to be _handled_ , and it makes me insane. Oh, and now that I've had a flashback, we'll _never_ have sex again!" and Dr. Reed asks, in his ridiculously calm voice, "Why is sex so important?" and Sherlock bellows, "Why is _sex so important?_ I'll tell you _why_ —because it's _all I know how to do!"_

"Okay, back up, because I'm confused," Dr. Reed says in his no-nonsense voice that grates on Sherlock's nerves even as he's grateful for it. "Are you saying that's all you have to _offer_ in a relationship?" and Sherlock scoffs like it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard, and doesn't answer. Dr. Reed says, far too kindly for Sherlock's taste, "Silence is an answer, Sherlock."

Sherlock hangs up on him, and ignores the first time Dr. Reed calls, and then the second. Dr. Reed sends a text message, well, obviously it's from Dr. Reed, as it's an unknown number, but who else would say, _if you don't answer, I'll phone your emergency contact_ , and Sherlock doesn't answer. Let Mycroft come and try to bully Sherlock into being _well-adjusted_. He can ignore Mycroft just as easily as Dr. Reed.

Sherlock turns his phone off, stuffs it into a drawer upstairs in the second bedroom, and then goes downstairs, curls up on John's side of the bed, and wants to weep at the sweet smell of John's body. He should've insisted he and John have sex in _this_ bedroom, and not upstairs, because then he could roll around in the scent of it, and imagine that John might come home, and find Sherlock already in bed, and Sherlock would open sleepy eyes and say _c'mere_ , and John would, grinning a little maybe, or maybe just look serious, his love for Sherlock so plainly written on his face that there would be no doubt, none at all, that Sherlock belonged to him.

The sad thing, the thing that makes him want to scream, and tear out his hair, and maybe shoot holes in the wall, or maybe just shoot heroin into his veins is this—Sherlock already belongs to John. That's the thing about love that he _hates_ . Sherlock thinks about Molly, and her stumbling, nervous unrequited love for him, and wonders if this is how she felt, knowing that he would always have _her_ heart, but that she would never have his?

It's not that Sherlock doubts he _has_ John's heart. It's that Sherlock knows John, and John will do the _noble_ thing—he'll say _we need to step back after last night,_ which—when translated, means, _let's stop doing all the things that make us a couple, and go back to being people who live together, are madly in love with each other, and just pine like fucking idiots_.

How to make John realize that sex is vital to their relationship? It's not about _getting off_ , any more than Sherlock's flashback was a result of having _sex_. It's about—fuck, he doesn't know how to explain it.

"I should've answered Dr. Reed's calls—I could've asked his advice," Sherlock mumbles into the pillow.

The next thing he's aware of, he's being shaken awake by John, whose eyes are a bit wild, and whose keys jingle madly from his hand.

"Your therapist called me, said you weren't answering your phone!" John shouts, even though Sherlock's ears are about three inches from John's mouth.

"What?" Sherlock asks, one eye squinting.

"I'm your emergency contact. Did _you_ know I was your emergency contact?"

"Oh, sorry, I forgot about that," Sherlock says, pushing to sitting and rubbing his eyes.

"Well?" John demands, hands on hips, his eyes flashing and glittering, and Sherlock's heart hurts, realizing what an error it was to list John without asking him, and says, "I can take you off. I just thought—"

"You just thought you'd bloody well not answer the phone when your therapist called you three times, and I called you the whole way home on the fucking tube? Where is your fucking phone anyway?"

"Upstairs," Sherlock says, brows drawn tight, feeling like a child being fussed at for failing to do—whatever it is that children get punished for failing to do.

John's bones seem to melt, and he collapses on the bed next to Sherlock, facing the headboard so that they're looking at each other. Sherlock scoots over to make room for him. "I was worried about you," John says softly. "I fucked up last night, and I thought perhaps you'd—"

"Killed myself," Sherlock says flatly, refusing to meet John's eyes.

"No," John says, looking confused, his blue eyes dilating slightly even now, being in bed with Sherlock. "I thought you'd, I don't know, actually. I don't know." He rubs his hands over his face, or tries to, and almost pokes himself in the eye with his keys. He tosses them on the floor in disgust, like they've made some key-related faux pas by not being in their proper place in John's pocket.

John turns to Sherlock, and lays his hand on Sherlock's ankle. His thumb begins to rub little circles in the inside bone, and Sherlock starts to relax into the touch. John looks down at his thumb making circles around the delicate skin of Sherlock's ankle (he hadn't known they were an erogenous zone, but then again—everywhere John touched was an erogenous zone).

"It's just that I watched you fall. I thought that was your broken body on the pavement. I thought, all that precious mind of yours, cracked open on the pavement. It was an absolute waste. So, even though I didn't think you'd hurt yourself, the thing is—I didn't think it then, either. And I thought I was wrong, and it—now I don't know that I can trust myself."

Sherlock pushes himself all the way up, and grabs John by the wrist, and says, "C'mere," just like in his fantasy, and John goes. Sherlock wraps him up in his arms, and finds his chest expanding with something that feels like hurt, but also feels good, when John slumps against him, pressing his face into Sherlock's neck.

"Do you know how much I love you?" Sherlock asks, softly and with a scratch in his throat, he doesn't wait for John to answer him. "'The truth is that I didn't work right until I met you, and maybe that's not what other people think about when they think of love, but I only work right when I'm with you, even when I want to throw you off a roof myself, and I couldn't possibly in a million years  _not_ know how to love you forever.'"

He feels John stiffen in his arms, but he holds him tight, so tight, and says, "You misunderstand, John. I'm not throwing it in your face. I'm trying to tell you that I feel the same. I know you think I'm too far above mortals to love as deeply, and messily, and complicatedly as they do. But I would argue that, for a man who valued logic and facts more than anything else, who was perfectly happy to spend the rest of his life in casual sexual relationships, who despised sentiment because it made one weak, foolish, I would say that my love for you is all the more frightening in being something I never wanted, and now something I can't live without. I'm stumbling forward the best I can in the dark. Stop throwing things for me to trip over, and just hold my hand. Or better yet, to take the metaphor a bit further out, help me find a goddamn torch."

"I'm not sure what you're saying," John says, laughing, when Sherlock pokes him in the ribs. "I mean, it's a lovely speech, truly, I'm just not sure—"

"Oh, for _fuck's_ sake! You sound like Dr. Reed!"

John turns and looks at him like a disapproving mother, and says, "Well, see, that's why you should've answered his goddamn phone calls."

"You think you're funny, but you're really not," Sherlock says, and John says, "That's my line, actually," and Sherlock kisses him. John pulls back, and Sherlock stops him, one arm around him, the other holding the back of his head tight, and he whispers, "I need you to stop doing what _you think_ is right for me, or for us. There's an _us_ , John, and you're tiptoeing around, afraid of triggering something terrible, and I'm tiptoeing around trying not to be demanding—"

"—well, you're failing—"

"I'm _serious_ ," Sherlock says, his voice rough and pained. "It wasn't the _sex_ , John. It was the pressure on the back of my neck."

John sits up, his body rigid, and his nostrils flaring, and says, "I sat there for a minute and a half, staring at you because I was distracted by sex. I've dealt with at least a dozen of your flashbacks, and that one was—because _I_ caused it, I—I couldn't act, I felt frozen. So, I knelt there for a minute and a half and watched you relive being raped. Let's just say I _forget_ the toll it took on you. What about the toll it took on _me_ ? Eh? Did you consider that? I've _never_ hesitated when you've had a flashback, but I did this time because I was distracted by my bloody erection, and the fact that you'd just—"

"Come on your face?" Sherlock asks darkly, and John says, "Yes," and then he slides the back of his hand along the side of Sherlock's face, knuckles bumping against his cheekbone. "And that's why we should take it—"

"No, that's why we _shouldn't_ take it slow, dammit!" Sherlock growls, knocking John's hand away, which immediately after strikes him as ironic. "How will we ever figure out what triggers me if we never touch each other! Is there a time frame for taking it slow? _Stop prevaricating_ . Stop—" Sherlock says, and then waves the hand not holding John in a gesture that implies John should stop being _John-like_ , which doesn't exactly clarify things.

"Stop what?" John asks after a moment of tense silence, and Sherlock says, without thinking, "Stop cockblocking me."

John bites his lips and tries not to laugh, but John is terrible at hiding his feelings, which is part of the problem—Sherlock can see the desire in John's eyes, and the way they linger on Sherlock's body. (If Sherlock is wearing a button down and trousers, but rolls his sleeves up, John licks his lips 20% more than when Sherlock's sleeves are buttoned at the wrist. If he _watches_ Sherlock unbutton his cuffs, and roll them up, he bites his lips [lower first, then upper], and stares at Sherlock's groin approximately 47% more often than when Sherlock's cuffs are buttoned.) He's tired of calculating John's unrequited desire. He wants to calculate that desire put into action—and he certainly wants to put his own desire into action.

"John, you are literally in my bed, and—"

"—it's _my_ bed—"

"—our _shared_ bed—"

"I like the sound of that," John says, his eyes going warm and soft, which Sherlock usually finds charming, but which suddenly seems so _hateful_ , that Sherlock just cannot hold back anymore. He pushes John onto his back roughly, and climbs on top of him. " _You_ are more dangerous than Moriarty ever was, because you _distract_ me. I can't _think_ about anything else when I'm around you, and you prance around like the little trollop you are, and I _burn_ , and then you dance out of my reach—"

"There's at least three things you just said that I find incredibly insulting," John says breathlessly, his hands only touching Sherlock by the slightest graze of his thumbs against Sherlock's tucked up calves.

"I want to fuck you," Sherlock bites out, and wishes he could crawl inside John's mind, pick through all his secrets, all his most shameful lustful thoughts. There has got to be a wildly depraved man in there somewhere.

"What—now?" John says, voice smoky and dark, like a man who's just smoked a cigarette and debauched someone.

"You _want_ me to fuck you," Sherlock says, his voice growly and mean-sounding. His dick is so hard, he might just rub himself off against John's thigh, and then at least he could stop _wanting_ for a few minutes.

"Of course I want you to fuck me," John whispers, eyes glittering underneath the half-dropped eyelids.

"Take your clothes off, and put your hands on the bedframe," Sherlock says, climbing off him, and barely holding back from palming himself through his trousers. _Christ_ —John lies there in his boring scrubs, looking dazed, and absolutely the most fascinating thing Sherlock has ever encountered.

John says, "You're gonna fuck me right now. Really," with his eyes dancing with alarm and excitement, and Sherlock wants to ravage him, wants to absolutely _ruin_ him right now.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side, as though considering it, and says, "Take your clothes off, and put your hands on the bedframe. If your hands are restrained, and you're not behind or over me, I think I'll be less likely to—" He can't say the words, he just can't, not when John's melting into the bed, and it's the middle of the day, and he's supposed to be at work, and it reminds Sherlock of being at university, fucking in dorm rooms in the afternoon in between lectures, their bodies twisting, snaking through his mind, all that skin, and cocks and cunts, and _god_ , it was a feast, and Sherlock indulged. He was, quite frankly, an absolute whore.

"So, this isn't a bondage thing? Um—tying my hands to the bedframe, I mean."

"I'm not going to _tie_ them," Sherlock says, irritated that John's missing the whole point when it was John who's worried about triggering a flashback or panic attack, but then his spine stiffens, and he purrs, "Unless you want me to."

"No, that's—that's, right. Fine, I mean."

"Which, John? Tying them or not?"

"You fucking wanker, stop being all seductive with your voice, and your—cheekbones, and that fucking _mouth_ —Christ, Sherlock, we're supposed to be talking about this not—"

"No talking," Sherlock whispers and touches his finger to John's lip. He shivers when John's tongue peeks out and licks just the tip of Sherlock's finger. Sherlock's breath hitches, and he pushes his finger slowly into John's mouth. John licks around the tip, and then along under the bottom. Sherlock moans and closes his eyes, and thinks rubbing himself off on John's thigh might be more prudent than fucking him, because Sherlock is never going to last if John does things like this, like—

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Sherlock hisses when John reaches for Sherlock's hand, and slides two more of his fingers in alongside the first. He does some amazing things with his tongue that bear a close resemblance to all the amazing things he did with his tongue to Sherlock's cock the night before, and the memory on top of the feel of John's tongue, and lips working up and down his fingers, his tongue flickering over the sensitive tips like he's lapping at Sherlock's cock turns Sherlock into a whining, panting mess. John smirks, and even with saliva running down his chin, he looks so cool that Sherlock is suddenly flushing with embarrassment at the way John keeps taking over Sherlock's seduction attempts, and easily turning him into a moaning ruin. "You are a _menace_ ," he tells John, before yanking his fingers out of his mouth, the scrape of John's teeth causing a sudden flush of blood to his prick.

"You wanted me to touch you," John says, pushing himself up on his elbows—his sassy tongue keeps poking the inside of his lip, and stroking along it, his grin brazen—and there's a challenge in his eyes. The watery sun coming through Sherlock's windows feels like it was made to backlight John. He couldn't look better if an artist had laid him out, and something about the moment breaks something in Sherlock's chest.

"Sometimes I just can't stand it," he whispers, looking down at John, who's looking back up with his eyebrows furrowed in concern, and then his hand is on Sherlock's cheek, and he's rising up to press his lips against Sherlock's collarbone, and he murmurs, "Tell me," against Sherlock's skin, who closes his eyes, and cries, "You make me feel too much!"

John licks his way along Sherlock's collarbone, and Sherlock feels his cock leap to life again. John's tongue keeps doing ridiculously wicked things to his neck, and he just— _god_ . This man is going to finish off what Moriarty started, because the sheer exquisiteness of the pleasure John incites in him is going to fucking kill him. He groans in a combination of frustration and pleasure, and shoves his hands up under John's scrub top, pushing it up until John gets the hint and lifts his arms. Sherlock leaves him to deal with getting his top off so he can pull the drawstring on John's bottoms, not letting himself get distracted by John's fat cock straining against his pants, or the flat but muscular stretch of John's glutes, and instead manhandles John out of his bottoms, and down his legs. His pants are white, his socks are white, and his shoes are black, and there's something _sinful_ about seeing John that way—a fantasy pops into Sherlock's mind of John buggering a nurse over an exam table, and he slips his fingers under the top of John's socks and slides it down slowly, allowing his fingers to stroke the delicate skin of John's ankles. John sucks in a breath, and Sherlock's eyes snap to his, and suddenly Sherlock needs John out of these goddamn shoes and socks, and when he's got John in nothing but his boyish white pants, John pushed up on his elbows, but his head beginning to tilt backwards, as though the bed is pulling at him, seducing him to lie down, Sherlock helps it along, putting his hand in the center of John's chest and pushing. John falls on the bed with a grunt, and Sherlock bends to the challenge of locating all the erogenous zones on John's feet, ankles, lower legs, and knees, and his bruised ego is plumped up (just like his cock) when he has John thrusting his hips up off the bed, and crying, "Sherlock— _please_ ," and Sherlock asks, "Please what?"

John suddenly pushed himself upright and grabs the lapels of Sherlock's button down, and in a voice hoarse with lust, and deliciously growly, demands, "Fuck me."

 _"John,"_ Sherlock whispers. "Are you sure? You've only—I mean—"

"Sherlock-fucking-Holmes," John grits out. "Do not tell me that you gave me the big fucking speech about us not taking things slow, and now you're hesitating."

"Fair enough," Sherlock says, a grin stretching his lips. "Do you have the necessary supplies?"

John rolls his eyes and jerks his head towards the bedside drawers. "Everyone keeps lube and condoms in the drawer closest to the bed, Sherlock," and Sherlock grimaces and says, "True dat."

John lets out a sultry moan, and says, "I love it when you use slang in your posh voice."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, and says, "I'll keep that in mind," and reaches for the drawer in the bedside locker.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! Teddy and her damn cliffhangers! 
> 
> More sexytimes to come!


	21. Untouched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock exercises his considerable skills at dirty talk. John comes untouched. Sherlock gloats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm desperate for attention, this chapter has been snuck in under the beta radar, which means Jenn and Katie, betas extraordinaire, haven't read it first. All mistakes are mine.

~*~

**Saturday, 13 March 2013**

Sherlock's kneeling on John's side of the bed, digging through the drawer in the bedside table, with his mile long legs stretched over his own side, and John's trying to get around him so he can lie down the right way around, but John doesn't want to touch him from behind, not after last night—he doesn't want to touch him at all unless Sherlock is facing him, so he says, "Move—here, I need you to—" but Sherlock interrupts him with, "My god, John, it's like a sex-shop in here!" and John sighs, and sits down cross-legged at the end of the bed to wait.

Sherlock turns around, his arms full of bottles and boxes, and he puts it all on the bed, and John moves to the head of the bed, and props himself up against the bedframe, blushing slightly at the small, but thorough selection of sexual aids Sherlock has laid out on the bed. He turns around and says, "What's in the bottom drawer—" and opens it, and John covers his face with his hands, trying hard not laugh when he feels Sherlock pulling things out, and tossing those onto the bed as well.

John hears the drawer shut, and he moves his hands off his face to see Sherlock staring at him, mouth slightly open, and says, "What?" not meaning it to sound so challenging. He tries not to look down at the collection of items on the bed, but can't help it, and when he looks back up, Sherlock is glaring at him.

"Please tell me which of these things has been in Gerald's arse," Sherlock says, glowering, and John can't help himself—he laughs hoarsely, shoulders shaking, sounding more like someone suffering through an asthmatic fit, than someone expressing mirth. Sherlock keeps glaring at him, and John squeezes tears out of the corners of his eyes, and wipes them away, and finally Sherlock grabs him, and pushes him down, and kisses him, and says, "Shut up."

"I'm sorry," John says, and tries not to look into Sherlock's eyes or at the pile of goods on the bed, but then Sherlock pulls back, and says incredulously, "I mean, _really_ , John!" and John starts laughing again.

Sherlock sits back on his heels, his eyes narrowed, but this time there's the suggestion of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He holds up a sizeable butt plug, and says, "Well?"

"No," John says, shaking his head. "We didn't share toys—although there were a couple that I had here for him, but I threw those away."

"So, all these have only been up _your_ arse?" Sherlock asks solemnly, and John can't help another wheezing laugh, so Sherlock slaps John's knee, and leans down, and says in his darkest purr, "Maybe, instead of fucking you, I'll try all these out on you, and then I'll shove this plug up your arse, and make you wear it for the rest of the day, and tonight, and tomorrow all through work so that while you're saving lives, or stitching people up, or chatting with your co-workers, you'll know that I'm waiting here for you, and when you come home, I'll bend you over my chair, pull it out, and fuck you."

John's dick, which had taken a nap during all the talking and laughing bits, wakes up, but John, ever practical, says, "You know, I can't—I can't really wear that for that many hours. I'd at least have to take it out when I had to, you know—" and Sherlock rolls his eyes, and says, "It's _dirty_ talk, not _reality_ talk," and, for some reason, that makes John laugh again, which makes Sherlock flop back on the bed with an impatient, condescending huff, and he mutters, "Never mind. I don't want to fuck you anymore," petulantly staring at the ceiling.

"C'mon, I'm sorry," John says. He turns, and asks, "Can I—" and Sherlock asks, "What?" immediately alert, and John says, "I want to kiss you, but you're down there, and you said—it's okay so long as I'm not behind you or over you, so I need you to—"

The answer becomes moot when Sherlock jumps off the bed—which is memory foam rather than spring mattress, a good thing, or the toys, and bottles, and boxes of condoms would've gone flying and rolling off the bed—and sheds his t-shirt, and pajama bottoms (no pants). Then he studies the collection of items on the bed, and tosses all the toys into the bottom drawer, before picking up a few bottles and laying them out, and putting the rest in the top drawer, as well as the condoms for oral sex.

"What," Sherlock says, holding up something blue and plastic, "is this?"

"A lube launcher," John says, and tries—he honestly _tries_ —not to laugh, but the look of utter horror on Sherlock's face, as it dangles from his hand is too hard to resist.

The lube launcher looks like an old fashioned syringe, except pale blue and plastic. Sherlock pulls the injector out without slipping his fingers through the loops on the handle, and stares into the dispenser like he expects to find something gross, and considering Sherlock's affinity for leaving petri dishes with gross things around, it would have to be quite disgusting. Finding nothing, he pushes the injector back into the dispenser, and lets it dangle from one of the loops of the handle.

"Why—" Sherlock begins to ask, and just looks at John with a mixture of incredulity and confusion.

"Now look who's the idiot!" John says gleefully. "What do you think it's for? You dip it into the lubricant, pull the injector out to suck up the lube, and then stick it up someone's arse, and dispsense the lube. It feels weird, but it makes it _so_ much easier to, you know, to—prepare someone."

"This someone being _you_ , correct?" Sherlock asks with that same glower as before.

"Um, actually," John says, grimacing, face burning red, "The—the blue one, uh, actually—did you find a red one in there?"

Sherlock looks at the lube launcher with even more horror, and then holds it up, and says, "Oh, I see," and he throws it overhand towards the bedroom door, which it smacks against before clattering to the floor. "There. The lube launcher has been launched," and John bows over in laughter so hard, it leaves him gasping for air.

Sherlock is laughing, too, but he stands up, naked, and says, imperiously, "I have to go wash my hands."

While he's in the bathroom, John digs through the top drawer, and says, "Ah-ha!" when he finds the red lube launcher, caught behind a small box of tissues. He picks up Gerald's, and tosses it in the loo bin right as Sherlock is drying his hands.

"You should wash your hands, too," Sherlock says, scowling at the offending item in the bin. John huffs in exasperation, but complies, and hears Sherlock call from the bedroom, in his _this could be an interesting experiment_ voice, "So, I can use this—the lube launcher?"

"If you like," John answers, canting his hip against the wall right outside the bathroom, his arms crossed over his chest, as he looks on with amusement at the lascivious look in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock raises his head, and looks at John, the heat in his eyes unmistakable, and John exhales, relieved that they're back on track.

"Come here," Sherlock says roughly, and John feels the tug of the hook in his belly that connects him to Sherlock, and he complies. Sherlock looks him over once, and in his eyes, John sees both possessiveness and satisfaction. Then Sherlock's hands settle on John's hips, and he bends down while John leans up, and they kiss. It's slow, but certainly not gentle, and Sherlock's tongue fills John's mouth, gliding unhurriedly, languidly over John's teeth, and the inside of his cheeks, and lips, and he just _knows_ that this is probably exactly how Sherlock fucks—slow, hard, unrelenting—and he knows he's going to unravel underneath Sherlock's hands, worries he might not even make it to the fucking part, if Sherlock fingers him the way he's kissing him.

It's an effective aphrodiasiac, Sherlock's mouth. John's not fully erect, yet, but the kiss brings him halfway, and then Sherlock's hands are no longer on his hips—he's got both palms inside the waistband of John's pants, and is sliding them down with the kind of measured teasing that their romantic interactions, however brief, have had—the rest of the time, he's like a bulldozer, which is pretty much how he is in everything. John, though, is the special recipient of this slow, seductive patience (a word he would _never_ have thought applied to Sherlock).

Sherlock's kiss is so thoroughly distracting, that John doesn't even realize his pants are down around his thighs until Sherlock says, "Off," and tugs on them. John steps back dazedly, and pushes them all the way down, and straightens up for another kiss, but still has one leg of his pants caught around his ankle, so he kicks his leg out behind him, sending the pants flying against the wardrobe.

When John feels Sherlock's fingers trail up and down his burgeoning erection, and one long, slick finger begins to slide down the cleft of his arse, John pulls back suddenly, and, face flushed, says, "I didn't, um—" He jerks his head towards the loo, and Sherlock frowns with impatience, and says, "You didn't what?" and John sighs, and rubs his hand over his forehead, and finally says, "Clean up. I, uh, I didn't—I have to _clean_ , you know?" hoping that Sherlock knows what he means by _clean_.

Sherlock doesn't however, and throws out his hands and says, "For god's sake, what could possibly need cleaning right now that takes precedence over me fucking you?"

Although he's madly in love with Sherlock, their move from friends to lovers has been abrupt, and he hesitates before continuing, face heating, "Clean. Myself. Out." The words are pointed but quietly spoken.

Understanding dawns on Sherlock's face, along with an eye roll. "I'm wearing a condom, it's not as though—" then stops at the look on John's face. He sighs with exasperation, and disappointment, and then says, flatly, "You're so _fastidious_. Hurry up," and sits down, leaning back against the headboard, toying with the red lube launcher, which John finds far more arousing than funny at this point.

John makes quick work of his _fastidious_ hygiene habits, and when he's finished, he throws everything that needs to be washed into the tub, washes his hands, brushes his teeth, and stares at his face in the mirror, until Sherlock opens the door and grabs John's arm, and says, "Get in here," and drags him in before depositing him on the bed. "Hands and knees," he snaps. John crawls to the head of the bed, while Sherlock climbs over to the other side, and says, "No, put your knees on the edge of the bed—here," so John does.

"Are you more comfortable holding yourself up, or shoulders—" Sherlock says, but John's already lowered his shoulders against the bed, face turned to the side, arms resting, framed around his head, palms down. He hears Sherlock draw in a ragged breath, and mutter something like _ohgod_ , and then, hesitantly, says, "Can I—do you want me to use this?" and dangles the red lube launcher in front of John's face. John says, "If you want, but you—you'll need to, um—do you see that little tub right there? Yeah? Okay, pump the stuff from the green bottle into that little bowl, and then you can suck it up with the—" and Sherlock picks up the tub, and says, "This?" and John nods.

John turns his face back into the pillow, and hears the wet, squelching sounds of lube being pumped into the little bowl, and then silence, and then he hears Sherlock, breathing heavily, but not moving behind him, and asks, "What's going on?" and Sherlock says, "Shut up, I'm thinking," and John asks, "What on earth is there to think about? You've done this befo—" and Sherlock says, "I'm _thinking_ about the fact that I'm about to put this thing in your arse, and fill it up with anal lube, and then I'm going to put my _fingers_ in your arse, and then I'm going to put my _cock_ in your arse, and I'm just—I'm trying not to think about all the other things I want to put in your arse, because it's entirely too possible that I might come in my pants," and John points out, "You're not wearing pants," and Sherlock smacks his arse, and says, "Shut up. I'm thinking," and John says, "I'd hoped that, you know, in _bed_ you might be a little nicer than you are _out_ of bed," but then Sherlock pulls his left cheek to the side, and circles a lube-coated fingertip over John's anus, and John thinks that Sherlock might not be the only one coming in his pants (that he's not wearing).

Sherlock's fingertip is pressed firmly against one side of the ridged muscle of John's hole, and John feels the curved tip of the dispenser, also well-slicked, pressing in next to Sherlock's finger, and then with a sound of breathless wonder, Sherlock gradually pushes it inside, until it's settled all the way in. He circles his fingertip around the edge of the plastic barrel, and says hoarsely, "Oh, god, John. If I milked myself for a week, I could save my semen, and then use this to suck it up, and fill you over and over again, and then I'd plug you. Or I could freeze it, my semen, in an ice tray, yes, and then when I had a dozen, I'd put you down on the bed, and shove one in your mouth, and let one melt on your neck, on your nipples, stomach, all over your cock, maybe shove a few up your arse—" and John says, _"Fuck!_ I'm going to come before you can launch any of the goddamn lube inside me if you keep talking that way."

Sherlock says, "I can't help it if my imagination is creative and vivid," in a wounded voice, "but I can stop if you—" and John reaches his hand back, and Sherlock grasps it, and John says, low and solemn, "No, I don't want you to stop. I don't want you to hold back with me in any way. This is us, yeah?" and Sherlock breathes, "Yeah. All right, I just get—you know me, I get carried away." John whispers, "Yeah, I do know you," and squeezes his hand once before letting go.

After that, there's only the sound of their ragged breathing, and the squelching, sucking sound of Sherlock pushing down the plunger while pulling the barrel slowly out, and John can't help the long, low grunting moan that comes from deep in his throat. Sherlock says, "Oh, hell," and pulls it all the way out, before tossing it on the floor. John almost says, _you're cleaning the floor where you dropped that_ , but Sherlock spreads both of his cheeks wide, and John clenches automatically, and Sherlock gasps, and groans so loudly that John wonders if he really has come in his nonexistent-pants.

"Oh, John," Sherlock says, gasping. "A little bit squirted out of your arsehole, and I'm just— _fucking fuckity fuck_." The sound of Sherlock cursing so coarsely is sexy, and he lets go of one of John's cheeks to press a finger against his rim, and then he pushes it in, and John almost strokes himself, so desperately hard. If he didn't want Sherlock to fuck him so bad, he could get himself off just like this, with only one finger inside him. Sherlock's fingertip slips in and out, pressing on John's rim as it does, and John says, surprised by the way his voice cracks and breaks, "I can take two."

"No, I want—" Sherlock says, but doesn't finish. He presses his index finger in, and in, and in until John can feel the rest of Sherlock's hand pressed up against his arsehole. Sherlock twists his finger, and John hisses and jumps and pants, and Sherlock moans, and says, "God, that lube launcher is _brilliant_ ," and John would laugh if he could, if he wasn't thinking _fingers, cock, more_ in a loop in his head. Sherlock pulls his index finger out, slowly, pressing it down as he goes, dragging along the inside bottom of John's rectum, and just barely misses his prostate. John still makes a sound that is meant to be, _oh, yeah,_ but comes out, _ohyayaohohya_.

Sherlock then uses his middle finger, and pushes that in, by itself, all the way until the knuckles of his hand are once pressing against the outside of John's hole, and John says, breathlessly, "Why are you—" and Sherlock rubs a circle on John's lower back, and then John feels Sherlock's wet, open mouth kissing his right cheek, tongue darting out to lick flat over the kiss, and then the pressure when Sherlock's lips lock and he _sucks_ a bruise into John's arse cheek. He repeats the process on a different part of the same cheek, and John asks, stumbling words falling out of him, "Sherlock, are you gonna—I mean, I want— _fuck_ , will you just do it already?" and Sherlock says, "No," the word drawn out slow and sultry, and John presses back and then forward, and Sherlock purrs, "Oh, god, look at you, you gorgeous, filthy, little—if I just stood here holding my cock out, would you fuck yourself on it?" and John says, "Don't call me little," and Sherlock chuckles darkly, and asks, slowly, the timbre of his voice almost threatening, "Would you fuck yourself on my cock if I just stood here?" and John moans, "Yes," and Sherlock pulls his finger out, and then pushes his index and middle finger inside.

Sherlock's mouth opens, and a litany of smut falls out like he doesn't even realize he's doing it (and John thinks it's highly likely that he _doesn't_ ).

"When I'm cleared, John, I want to fuck you just like this, on your hands and knees, and when I come, I'll plug you up, and leave you there, hard and aching until my cock is hard again—and I assure you my refractory period is quite impressive for my age—then I'll suck you off, and you'll come in my mouth, but I won't swallow. I'll push you back down onto your shoulders so your arse is in the air, waiting for my cock, and I'll pull the plug out, then open my mouth and let your semen fall from my mouth onto your gaping anus, and make you squeeze your arse—oh, yeah, just like that—fuck that's—and my semen will dribble out of you. My DNA will be mixed with your DNA, and I'll plunge into you without warning, our seed mixing together, and when I come again, I'll smear both of our semen all over your arse, down your thighs, around to your dick which will be hard and aching again. I'll help you up to your feet, and then I'll kneel before you and you'll jack yourself and come on my face, and I'll smear your cum all over my body. Then I'll make us both stay like that, covered in each other, our bodies twined together, lips sliding together slow and sloppy, the both of us drunk on endorphins and each other until we can't stand being filthy anymore."

"I already can't stand being this filthy," John gasps and grunts, and pushes back onto Sherlock's fingers, and says, "Please, Sherlock, _please_. I'm going to come if you keep this up," and Sherlock says, wonderingly, also breathless and barely able to speak, "You can come without touching yourself?" and John, frustrated and so, so hard, says, "I haven't yet, but you're well on your way to—"

Sherlock pulls his fingers out, and there's the sound of a condom wrapper, and Sherlock muttering _fuck, my hands are too_ —and then wiping his fingers on the bed. John says, "You should've put the condom on first," and Sherlock says, "Yes, thank you, John, that's fairly obvious," and John teases him as much as he can when he feels like he's about to combust, "I thought you said you'd done this sort of thing before," and Sherlock smacks his arse, and then grabs him by the hip with one hand, his long, long fingers brushing the edges of John's pubic hair, his other hand guiding his cock in, starting slowly, but John pushes back, and Sherlock's hips thrust forward instinctively. John grunts at the brief flare of pain, but Sherlock waits patiently before John nods, and then Sherlock fucks him exactly as John knew he would—long, hard, slow strokes out, and in, and out, and in, while his mouth keeps running.

"I want to come on your body, and smear it into your skin, and then make you walk around with it underneath your clothes. It would be even better if we went to a crime scene, and I'd know that you were marked as mine, that anyone who got close enough would smell me on you. Lestrade, and Donovan, and fucking Anderson, who wants to fuck you by the way—" and John says, "There's no fucking way," while rocking back against Sherlock, who says, "No, he does, he really—" then Sherlock grunts before finishing his sentence, "I think, but—I think it's because he hates me, and fucking you would be payback."

"What would you do if he fucked me?" John asks, and Sherlock thrusts into him and pulls out, establishing a faster rhythm, and says, harshly, "I'd fucking kill him," and John says, "Well, then you'd better make sure you spread your semen all over my body before we go to the next crime scene, so he knows better," and Sherlock makes a sound like _ah-ha-ha-ah_ , breath coming rapid, forced out of him. "Christ, when I look at you, I can't believe you just—you fucking gorgeous creature, you're like drugs used to be, I can't get enough."

"If that's all it takes to keep you off drugs, my arse is yours," and Sherock slams into him hard enough that John has to brace his arms to keep them from toppling over, and John says, "Jesus, Sherlock, you could warn me," and Sherlock growls, "Your arse already belongs to me," and quiets for a moment as he fucks them both into a sustained stupor, clearly skilled at keeping himself and his partner on edge.

Until he starts talking.

"I want you to do the same to me, fill me up with your semen, paint it all over my skin, and then plug me up, and then I could walk around London with you inside me, and on me, even when you weren't there. We could go to a crime scene, and I would know, and you would know that I'm full of your semen, and I'd take you somewhere private, and I'd be wearing my seven hundred and fifty pound trousers, but I'd still get on my knees in a dirty alley, or in the dirt hidden behind a tree in the park, or on a public bathroom, and you'd fuck my face, while I wore your cum on my body and inside my arse, and when you got close to orgasm, I'd pull off, finish you with my hand, and let you come all over my expensive trousers. I'd ride in a cab with your semen all over me, and when you weren't here, and I wanted to get off, I could stuff my dirty trousers in my mouth while I mastur—"

And John comes, abruptly and untouched, arse clamping painfully tight around Sherlock, who hisses and stares in shock at John grunting and straining and twisting below him, and has to keep John's hips in a death grip so he doesn't rip himself off of Sherlock while his muscles are so rigidly clenched. John moans, "Oh, shit, oh fuck, I'm sorry, I told you your mouth!" even as his cum splatters the duvet, and Sherlock thinks _we should have pulled that off_.

It takes a surprisingly long time for John's body to relax enough for Sherlock to move again. "Will you—can I keep going or do you get too sensitive?" Sherlock asks. John just waves a hand limply above his head, and Sherlock doesn't wait for further clarification, but picks up a quicker pace designed to bring him to orgasm as quickly as possible, which works perfectly. He comes less than a half minute later, and in the same sudden manner as John's, without warning, and Sherlock feels triumphant, because he knows that John has _never_ come untouched, but Sherlock's nailed it (and him) first time. He avoids pumping his fist into the air. He pulls out, pulls off the condom, ties the end, and drops it on the floor.

John turns over onto his back looking both slightly humiliated and incredibly sated, and Sherlock collapses, face down, next to John, and says, "That didn't go quite as I'd planned," and John doubles over laughing, curled onto his side, while Sherlock's shoulders shake with glee, and then Sherlock props himself up on his elbow, and watches John, the words _nobody else has made him come untouched, but I did_ , running on a ticker tape through his mind, and John reaches up, pushes a sweaty curl out of Sherlock's eyes, and says, "You're gloating, aren't you?" and Sherlock grins, and tucks his face into John's neck. "A little," he says, voice muffled by John's sweaty skin.

John strokes his palm up and down Sherlock's arm, and then down again, laces their fingers together, and says, "Go ahead and gloat all you want, sweetheart. I'm impressed," and Sherlock murmurs, "Sweetheart," before licking salty sweat off John's skin, and quieter, drawing the word out into two, "Sweet—heart."

"Yes," John says, and tousles Sherlock's sweaty, inky curls, and Sherlock grunts, twisting his head away from John, and says, "You're a menace."

"I'm not sure that counts as an endearment," John says, laughing silently, shoulders shaking with delight, and Sherlock murmurs, "My menace."

"Yes," John says, and they lie quietly together for a time, enjoying only this—the two of them, well-fucked, and nobody else, nothing else, nothing between them.


	22. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two thirds very minor angst (I _swear_ it's very minor)  
>  One third porn  
> All unbeta'd because Jenn and Katie are being held hostage by duties that are not all about me, a circumstance I find very unfortunate but also conducive to sneaking in bits of porn.  
> *giggles madly*

**Sunday, 14 April 2013**

They sleep, in the dark, dreamless, and when Sherlock wakes it's still dark outside. John's partial erection rubs hopefully against Sherlock's arse crack. He can tell John is still asleep by the deep and even brush of his humid breath between Sherlock's shoulders, and his arm thrown loosely over Sherlock's body, but when John's dick slips into Sherlock's sweaty crease, Sherlock's lust blazes into life. He can't help but push back against John, and his hand automatically goes to his own dick, which he strokes from partial to full hardness by levering his wrist a few times. He rocks back against John more forcefully, which finally wakes him up. John's hand tightens on Sherlock's stomach briefly before he rolls away.

Sherlock whines unattractively, indignant about the loss of John's hardness rubbing inside his crack, but John says in his sleep rough voice, "Sorry," and Sherlock growls in frustration. He rolls over, too, and then mounts John's body, settling his arse right over John's cock. John groans, squeezes his eyes shut, and his hands slide up Sherlock's thighs.

"What are you doing?" John asks when he finally opens his sleepy lustful eyes.

"I want you to fuck me," Sherlock murmurs, leaning forward to part John's lips with his tongue. John kisses him back, his hips making tiny upward movements, but then John gently pushes him away, and says, "No," and then, "I have to pee. And your breath stinks." Sherlock frowns, and retorts, "So does yours."

John murmurs his agreement, then says a little more forcefully, "Get off me—I have to pee," and Sherlock rocks back slightly, his arse slipping over John's cock. John groans quietly, breathlessly, and his eyes slip shut again. Sherlock grins in satisfaction, and says, "I'm not getting off until you tell me you'll fuck me."

John's eyes slide away, and his mouth opens, but he says nothing. Then he sighs, and looks back at Sherlock, and says, "We don't have time."

Sherlock knows he's lying. Not about them not having time—it must be close to the time John normally gets up, or he wouldn't have been rocking his hardon against Sherlock's arse—but Sherlock knows John still would've said no, even if they had all the time in the world. His jaw works as he tries to control the urge to slap John, but he rolls off as requested, and stares at the ceiling, trying to put a lid on his anger.

After John comes out of the loo, Sherlock says, without looking at him, "You're doing it again," trying not to sound hostile. John moves around the bed to the dresser, and absently says, "Doing what again?" He picks his phone up off the dresser to check the time, and says, "It's five forty-three, you bastard! I could've slept another seventeen minutes."

Sherlock pushes himself up, and throws his hands out, and says, "Excuse me? It was  _your_ _cock_  humping my arse that woke me up!" John winces, and his face flames red. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, which makes Sherlock even angrier. "Are you being purposefully obtuse, John? Have I given you any indication that I didn't _like_ it? I believe my exact words were _I want you to fuck me_."

"And I believe _my_ exact words were, _we don't have time_!" John shouts, and rubs his face roughly.

Sherlock throws himself out of the bed, and grabs his tartan dressing gown (rescued from the boxes upstairs), and pulls it around himself, before saying, his voice deep and dangerous, every word bitten off, "I know what you said. But I also know that even if we had the time, you'd still say no. You seem to forget that I can read you—hell, _anyone_ can read you! You're an open book!"

"Okay, for those of us who can't read minds, explain what you're trying to say?"

Sherlock rushes towards John, his arm held out, finger pointing at John like a spear, "You're afraid to trigger a flashback or panic attack—goddammit, John, how many times do I have to explain it? You think that just because some bastard stuck his dick in me while I was held prisoner and tortured for information—"

"Yeah, we call that _rape_ ," John says harshly, thunder gathering on his face.

"—I'll react the—okay, _fine_ —because some bastard _raped_ me, you think I can't tell the difference between that and _you_? I love you, John! Do you think that makes no difference?"

"I can't," John says finally, shutting his eyes, and the painful set of his mouth tempers some of Sherlock's anger, but not all, and he shakes his head, and then scratches his hands through his hair, turns away from John, and says softly, "Fine," and then again, even quieter, "Fine."

"I just need time," John says imploringly, and Sherlock _wants_ to understand John's point of view, but he doesn't, and can't help but turn back, and say, "If we both want it—and I know you want it, John—then I don't understand why we can't at least _try_. I thought—" Sherlock stops, and tilts his head back, shocked to find himself near tears. He takes a deep breath, and lowers his head again. "I thought we agreed that you wouldn't make decisions based on what _you_ think is right for both of us. Isn't that exactly what you're doing?"

John's alarm on his phone inconveniently goes off right before John can answer. He silences it, and then crosses the distance to Sherlock, fists his hands in the front of Sherlock's dressing gown, and says, "I _do_ want you. I really do, my _god_ , I do. I want to take you gently, and I want to take you roughly. I want to be above you, and behind you, and below you. I want you to feel the weight of my love, and the power of my lust— _Christ_ , Sherlock, I know I'm not as— _talented_ at telling you all the dirty things I want to do with you, but I can't—I'm terrified of risking another flashback like the one you had Friday night. It was—and I'm not downplaying your trauma, the original or the trauma of your flashbacks and panic attacks—but watching that flashback was _traumatic_." John lets go of Sherlock, and bends his head, and covers his face with his hands. When he removes them, he keeps his eyes on the floor, and says—almost too softly for Sherlock to hear, "I know how _delicate_ that makes me sound—" and Sherlock interrupts him, and says, "No, no—it doesn't. I think—" and he wraps John up in his arms, and presses his face into the crook of John's neck, sucking in the smell of John's skin. He can't help his hands from roaming over John's naked back, and arousal blooms back to life inside him, traveling along his nerves, and he peers over John's shoulder, wanting to clutch John's arse, wanting to spread him open and take him again, but he can't touch John, not yet, not until he reassures John that he gets it—because he does get it now, he really does.

"I understand, my—" and stops himself from tacking _darling_ on the end of the sentence, and John says, "My what?" and Sherlock steps back, shakes his head, smiles softly, and says, "I won't push amymore. I _do_ understand now." He strokes his hands over John's shoulders, and down the honey beige stretch of John's chest, a thumb brushing over John's nipple, and they gasp at the same time. Sherlock pushes John back towards the bed, and John groans, "I _really_ don't have time—I wasn't lying about that," but Sherlock shushes him. "Give me twenty minutes, all right?" and John nods.

Sherlock gestures him to scoot further up the bed, and John complies, his arousal plain now. He's not fully erect, but when Sherlock hooks his arms under John's legs, and spreads them wide, John's dick visibly hardens while Sherlock stares with impatient hunger at the feast below him. Then Sherlock hooks John's knees over his shoulders before getting down on his forearms. He roughly spreads John's cheeks, taking several long seconds just to enjoy the rumpled pink circle of his anus. With a groan, he buries his face in John's arse, and licks John's hole over and over again with the flat of his tongue. John makes beautiful noises above him, whimpering and moaning, but holding himself rigid until Sherlock raises his head to look at John's heavy-lidded, passion-hungry eyes, and says, "I want you to fuck your arse down on my face, and I want to hear _every_ sound you make, but keep your hand off your cock, because when I'm done here, I'm going to work two fingers inside of you, and swallow you down and then watch you come all over yourself, like the vulgar little doxie you are," and John's drawn-out groan and the way he bangs his head back against the pillow leaves Sherlock humping the bed trying to get friction on his own cock, which desperately wants to plunge itself into John's arse.

John doesn't immediately obey Sherlock's directive to shove his arse into Sherlock's face, so Sherlock gets a good grip around John's thighs and wrenches him down so that Sherlock's entire face is covered by John's arse, his balls bumping against Sherlock's brow. John moans and curses, and Sherlock alternates licking wide strokes over John's hole with thrusts of his tongue against and into John's hole until it's loose enough for him to work a finger into. He licks around his finger, and then lifts his head to watch John gripping the sheets so that he doesn't touch his cock. Satisfied, Sherlock lowers his head again, and keeps licking around his finger, crooking it up in a come hither gesture, and gradually fucks his tongue into John alongside his finger.

By the time he's stuffed John's arse with two fingers _and_ his tongue, John's hips are thrusting uselessly into the air, Sherlock's face from forehead to chin is covered in saliva, and he's so hard the friction against the duvet may just be enough to bring him off.

"Oh, god, Sherlock—I've got to— _fuck_ —I've got to come. I'm right on the edge," John says, and Sherlock lifts his head and stares hard at John, whose face is sheened with sweat, and whose hand is inching towards his fat, angry-headed cock. Sherlock nods once, pushes himself further up onto his forearms, and sucks John's purple-hot cockhead into his mouth. He keeps his fingers working inside of John, his weight balanced on that elbow, and uses the other to reach up, and gently tug John's foreskin down with his fingers. He gives John's glans little kitten licks, going from the bottom to the top. He pulls off, watching as a bead of pre-ejaculate immediately rises up in the exposed slit, and he sucks that off. He vibrates his tongue against John's frenulum, strokes gently over John's prostate, and John cries out, "I'm gonna—" and Sherlock pulls off. He strokes John gently, and when he feels John's muscles clench down tightly on his fingers, and his head tilt back, he says, " _Fuck_ , yes—that's it, you beautiful, filthy thing—let me see you paint your belly with your cum," and John does exactly that while Sherlock watches, enraptured, his eyes pinned on John's beloved face, frozen in pleasure as his orgasm washes through him. John's body is absolutely rigid, his sphincters clutching Sherlock's fingers tightly. When John's body releases him from orgasm, Sherlock asks, "Do you always get this tight when you come?" because John's arse has got a chokehold on his fingers, and John gives him a drunken grin, and says, "If it's good, yeah," and Sherlock pulls his fingers out carefully, then kneels up between John's legs. John widens them, and Sherlock holds onto his knee with one hand, and says, "Stay just like that," and takes himself in hand. He strokes his cock, his eyes darting between John's face, and the viscous liquid slowly sliding down the curves of John's sides, and then he's coming, too, silently, his eyes locked with John's, the pleasure so intense that he feels like he's been held hostage by his own body.

He collapses next to John, who says, "I need to shower," and Sherlock nods, but pulls him into a bruising kiss first. When they pull away, John says, "You're incredible. Absolutely brilliant," and Sherlock says, "I know," with a twitch of his eyebrows. John ruffles his hair, which he hates, and says, "Humble as always," and Sherlock says, "Fuck off," but his voice is infused with affection. He doesn't know how other people can look at John and not want to touch him, but seeing as how he doesn't _want_ anyone else to touch John (or even look at him, if he's honest with himself) it doesn't matter.

John showers, makes tea and toast, and forces Sherlock to eat. John dresses in scrubs—dark purple today, which seems almost pornographic, like he's advertising the color his cockhead is when he's desperately aroused. John kisses Sherlock before he leaves for work, and murmurs into his ear, "My arse is sore," and gives him a saucy grin, and Sherlock wants to fuck him up against the wall. Instead, he gets a rough, but brief kiss, John's tongue invading Sherlock's mouth, but withdrawing right when Sherlock is getting heated up.

"Trollop," Sherlock mutters. "Cock-tease. _Menace_."

"Only for you, sweetheart," John says with a wink. Sherlock can hear him whistling all the way down the stairs.


	23. Resurrection

**Monday, 15 April 2013**

Between Saturday and Monday afternoon, Sherlock and John fuck themselves into no less than five endorphin-fueled comas. There's their glorious first time, when John comes untouched on Saturday afternoon, and their second—the rimming and blow job he gets from Sherlock Sunday morning before work.

Then, Sunday evening when John comes home from work, he barely has time to close the door before Sherlock crowds him against the door, drops to his knees and sucks John off quick and dirty, swallowing when John comes. (John gripes at him afterwards about not using a condom, and Sherlock reminds him it isn't _John's_ bodily fluids that pose a problem).

Then, Sherlock pulls a sex-dazed John over to his armchair, and, using one palm against John's sternum, guides him down into the chair. Of course, Sherlock would have a tube of slick and condoms tucked between the arm and cushion of John's chair. He arranges John so that his bum sits on the edge of his chair, with one calf positioned over Sherlock's shoulder. He works John open until he's fucking John with four fingers, and John is begging for more. John's only half-hard, having just come, but his sweet pleading whites out Sherlock's mind, leaving him a growling, lust-addled cock. He secures both John's thighs over his shoulders, and holds John's arse cheeks open so he can watch himself fucking in and out of his hole. That was their third time.

 Number four—Monday morning, Sherlock wakes up to find John stroking Sherlock's dick to hardness. Sherlock groans in sleepy, lusty contentment as John sheaths Sherlock's dick with a condom, and slicks it up before climbing onto Sherlock and working his body down onto it. Sherlock, only half awake awake, says in his sleep-rough voice, "Stop—let me prep—" and John says, "I did it while you were sleeping," and Sherlock's mouth drops open as he stares at John in stunned silence. John grins, and asks, "What?" as he begins rocking back and forth, Sherlock's cock sliding in and out.

"That explains the chair," Sherlock says, the last two words coming out on a groan when John grinds down and squeezes his muscles.

"Chair?" John asks breathlessly. Sherlock lifts his chin towards the straight back wood chair that has been relocated from the living room desk to the bedroom. Sherlock's vivid imagination has no problem calling up an image of how it would have looked—John seated in the chair, his arse perched on the very edge, his feet propped up on the bed, finger fucking himself while watching Sherlock sleep, innocent of John's salacious plans.

"You dirty little slag," Sherlock says affectionately. He plants his feet flat on the bed, brings his thighs flush with John's back, and brings every muscle of his lower body to bear as he fucks himself up hard into the juicy, slippery so- _so-_ hot tunnel of John's body, hard enough that John must grab onto Sherlock's shoulders to avoid being thrown off. It's John's turn to look stunned as he's bumped up and down on Sherlock's cock, but when John wraps his hand around his own erection, and calls out Sherlock's name, Sherlock fucks him with delirious force. It's the first time Sherlock gets to watch John's face as he comes with Sherlock inside him, and it is a vision, a _revelation_ , and leaves Sherlock gasping, coming hard, silently, but for a grunt right before his body goes rigid. John's semen is streaked on both of them, and Sherlock would bet a thousand pounds that the entire encounter, from the moment Sherlock woke up until he came, lasts less than ten minutes.

 As they lie there, catching their breaths, John says hoarsely, "My arse is off-limits for at least three days. I wasn't sure I was going to make it through for a bit there. Good thing we came quickly," and Sherlock chuckles, his voice rough, and rearranges them so that John is spooning him. Sherlock holds their linked left hands over his heart, and it's not long before John's body goes limp, and his breathing evens out.

Sherlock leaves John dozing, and in the kitchen, he unearths the proper tea service and tray, makes a pot of tea, fills the little pitcher with milk, the miniature bowl with sugar cubes that don't seem ancient, makes toast, finds fresh orange juice in the fridge amongst the greenery of John's (and now Sherlock's) healthier eating habits, and carries it all back to the bedroom. When John sits up, Sherlock says, _"Voila!"_ and John stares, open-mouthed. Sherlock kisses his mouth closed, and goes to fetch the numerous broadsheets and tabloids they're subscribed to, and that Mrs. Hudson kindly leaves on their landing if she's up before them. He and John have their tea and toast in bed while Sherlock reads the crime reports and obituaries out of habit, and John does the daily crossword and Sudoku, leaving them both unfinished in favor of a shower, which Sherlock invades.

 After they dry off, they dress—well, John does, even if only in pajamas. Sherlock's only in his tartan dressing gown, the tie barely secured. John makes them cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch. After the washing-up is finished, Sherlock sits in his chair, tuning his violin, helping John with his abandoned crossword, until he's driven crazy by the sight of John's tongue stroking absentmindedly over his lips while he thinks, and they have another go at each other. This time, it's John on his knees. After Sherlock comes, John straddles him in his chair, and jerks himself off, coming all over Sherlock's belly. That's number five done.

After that, their fortyish bodies catch up with them. They lie on the furniture like clocks from Dali's _The Persistence of Memory_ , and Sherlock ends up falling asleep on the couch, still naked. John shakes him awake around six, and says, "You need to get dressed. Mycroft just texted me. He and Greg are on their way here." John starts to move away, but Sherlock catches his fingers, and asks, "Why's he coming?" and John huffs, and says, "The _press_ conference, remember?

"Oh. Right," Sherlock nods, and dashes to the bedroom, where he pulls on clean pajama bottoms and t-shirt. After deliberating, he shrugs on his tartan dressing gown, ties it, and walks out into the sitting room to see John holding an animated conversation with Greg, while Mycroft ignores them. It's the first time Greg has seen Sherlock since he faked his death.

Sherlock shakes Greg's hand when he offers it. Greg holds on a bit too long, and then clasps his other hand so that he's gripping Sherlock's hand in both of his, and says, "God, it's good to see you, you fucking bastard. When Mycroft told me you were still alive, I admit, I was _pissed_. Especially having watched what it did to this one—" He points to John, and says, "You're a right bastard, Sherlock Holmes, but _Christ_ , I'm happy to see you."

It's not the first time Sherlock has been admonished for John's grief at his death, and Sherlock can't help but glance at John, surprised to find John is already looking at him, although his words are directed at Greg, "None of that matters anymore," and Greg nods his head, makes a noise like _pshh_ , and says, "Hear, hear," and the two of them embrace tightly, smacking each other's backs, and holding on entirely too long for Sherlock's taste.

(Sherlock is reminded of all the times John and Greg chatted about football or rugby at crime scenes, or—worse—about John's current girlfriend, and Greg's marital problems. Sherlock had watched them then with a brutal jealousy that frustrated him without end. He'd known, of course, that he felt something for John—physical attraction if nothing else—and he'd also known that Greg and John were both bisexual, and Greg's marriage was on the rocks. He could easily see John and Greg on one of their pub nights, maybe having had one too many, agreeing to share a cab, knowing Greg's stop would be John's, too, even though they'd only obliquely hinted at seeking comfort in each other. Then, John coming home in the morning, rumpled, and smelling of beer and sex, trying to mask his guilt and fear of discovery from Sherlock. Until Moriarty had become a genuine problem, Sherlock had dreaded the words, _I'm off to meet Greg at the pub_ , and been unable to concentrate on anything until John would stumble in a few hours later, smelling of beer, but not sex, and Sherlock could breathe easy again.)

"So," Greg says, smirking. "You two, then?" and Sherlock says, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," at the same time that John says, "Yeah, finally," his warm-sand skin burning red along his ears, and chest, and Sherlock feels a possessiveness so strong, however unwarranted, that he takes John by the elbow, and whispers in his ear, "I need to talk to you." John gives him a look of puzzlement, but acquiesces, and Sherlock almost drags him to the bedroom, aware of Greg and Mycroft's eyes (especially _Mycroft's_ , the nosy bastard) following them curiously.

When they're in the bedroom, Sherlock shuts the door, and locks it, and then pushes John up against the wall next to the door. John, alarmed, asks, "Sherlock, what on—" but Sherlock holds him against the wall by his shoulders, and kisses him. It's a demanding kiss, and he doesn't give John any time to catch up—he pushes his tongue into John's mouth, and John lets out a quiet moan, his hands circling Sherlock's waist. Sherlock pulls back abruptly, leaving John dark-eyed and dazed. Sherlock smirks, and John blinks a few times, and then shakes his head, and says, "What—the fuck—was that?" and Sherlock opens his mouth, realizes how his reasoning will sound coming out, frowns, and closes his mouth. John, though, is no slouch when it comes to reading Sherlock (which should be annoying, but somehow isn't), and he tilts his head, and looks at Sherlock sternly. "Does this have something to do with Greg?" Sherlock frowns even deeper, and starts to object, but John smiles, and says incredulously, "You're jealous of Greg?"

"I am not," Sherlock declares authoritatively, but John's smile widens, and he says loudly, "You're _jealous_ —" then realizes he's being too loud, and lowers his voice, "You're _jealous_ of my relationship with _Greg_? That doesn't even make any sense! Greg is _straight_."

"Yes, well, so were you," Sherlock says with a raised, ironic eyebrow. Before John can open his mouth, Sherlock adds, "Besides, Greg is actually bisexual."

John's eyes open wide, and his lips part in astonishment, and he says, "No. Way."

"Do you mean to say that he never once showed interest in you, all those nights you met him at the pub for a pint?"

John's face morphs from incredulous to appalled. He shakes his head slowly, and says, "Uh, no. Nope. Why would he? He knew how I felt about you!"

Sherlock's face registers shock, and he opens his mouth, wanting to say something, but unsure as to what that something might be. "How long did he know?" Sherlock asks finally.

John tilts his head up towards the ceiling, and squints one eye, thinking. "A few months before you died, I told him how I felt, and he said he already knew, and that I should tell you." John shrugs ruefully. "Of course, I _didn't_ tell you, and then you jumped, and I hated myself for not saying something before. I thought maybe you'd not have jumped if you knew how I felt."

John's face registers the grief he felt back then, and Sherlock wraps him up again in his arms, and kisses him, and then whispers, "I'm sorry," and then kisses him again, and whispers, "I'm _so_ sorry," and kisses him a third time, pulls away, and says, "I'm—" but John interrupts him, and says, smiling, "Sorry, yes, I get it. But we're all right, yeah?" He brings his hand up and cups Sherlock's cheek, and then John kisses Sherlock, his hands resting lightly on Sherlock's waist, but the kiss—like all their kisses the last two days—quickly becomes heated, and soft moans and gasps fill the air. One of John's hands tighten on Sherlock's waist, and the other moves down to cup his arse, giving it a squeeze. John pulls back, nipping along Sherlock's jaw to his ear, and says, "That thing you did yesterday morning?" and Sherlock says, breathlessly, "Yeah?" even though it was a rhetorical question. John says, "I'm gonna do that to you. After they leave."

Sherlock's eyes go wide, and he starts to smile, but John says, "Uhn uh—you're not going to kick them out just so we can have sex," and Sherlock's face falls into a pout right as there's a light knock on the door. They both startle, looking towards the door like two schoolboys caught doing something they shouldn't.

Sherlock reaches over, and unlocks the door. It opens slowly to reveal a very displeased Mycroft. He stands in the doorway, his eyes slowly moving back and forth between them, and then down their bodies, and then back up to their faces. He lifts a lofty eyebrow, and says, slowly, "If the two of you are quite done _groping_ each other, your presence is, unfortunately, required for us to go over the particulars of the upcoming press conference, or did you forget?" Mycroft glares at Sherlock as he says the last three words. "Seeing as how Greg and I actually had to _work_ today, we would appreciate getting this out of the way so that we might. Go. Home."

Sherlock lifts his own lofty brow, and says, "Lead the way, darling brother," gesturing grandly, though vaguely, in the direction of the sitting room. Mycroft sniffs, and walks back to the sitting room. Greg sits in John's chair, his eyebrows raised as well, but more out of humor than arrogance, and Mycroft steals Sherlock's chair. He and Sherlock glare at each other, but Sherlock capitulates after only a few seconds, and throws himself down on the couch, pulling his dressing gown tightly around himself.

John, of course, asks, "Tea anyone?" already walking into the kitchen to turn the kettle on without waiting for an answer.

"Oh, yes, it's very important to replace all the fluids I've lost in the past forty-eight hours," Sherlock says, winking at John, who glares at him while his face, ears, and chest burn in embarrassment (but he also burns deep down low in his belly).

After everyone settles down with their tea, Mycroft begins explaining how the press conference is going to go—what time it'll start, when they need to be there, who will participate in the press conference, who will speak, and who will be there just for show. There will be a pre-approved list of questions for the journalists to ask Sherlock, and Mycroft has already found Sherlock a publicist to help him navigate the tricky timing of the press conference.

"It sounds more like a stage performance than a press conference," John says, automatically having taken notes just like he's always done when they had clients. Sherlock remains suspiciously quiet while they explain it, and every time John glances at him, he can see the tension worsening in Sherlock's body. When he catches Sherlock twisting his hands in his lap, John stands up abruptly, cutting Greg off.

"Let's call it a night," he says, giving Mycroft a meaningful look. It's subtle, but John isn't foolish enough to think it escapes Sherlock's notice. Sherlock, however, to John's surprise, shoots him a grateful look, and some of the rigidness in his body begins to loosen.

"There's still much to go over, Sherlock," Mycroft says, standing and taking up his umbrella. "I know this is overwhelming, but the press conference is less than two weeks from now, and we have to get it right. Your reputation—"

"I don't care about my reputation," Sherlock snarls. John glares at Mycroft and slides his eyes towards the door. _Leave!_ Without further comment, Mycroft does just that. Greg grips John's hand and then Sherlock's and says, "After this is all over, we need to go out for a pint," and John smiles and nods his head agreeably.

After they're gone, John heads towards the kitchen to scrounge something up for supper. His instinct is to collapse on the sofa next to Sherlock and pull him into his arms, but he knows Sherlock wouldn't appreciate it.

Suddenly, from the sofa, John hears Sherlock mutter, "I can't wait until this is all behind us. I just want things to go back to normal." John doesn't say anything, but the bitter longing on Sherlock's face is enough to make John feel again the weight of all that has happened in the last eighteen months. The past two days have been marvelous and the sex incredible, but Sherlock is far from putting it all behind him. He still has much to overcome, and John only hopes that Sherlock will accept help when he needs it, even from those he hates to appear weak in front of. Still, John can't help feeling the same wistfulness for the way things once were, though he wouldn't trade his and Sherlock's new relationship for all the world.

~*~

**Tuesday, 16 April 2013**

It's early evening, and John is sitting in the bathtub, half hard thinking about the ridiculous amount of sex he and Sherlock have engaged in over the past three days, when he hears Sherlock cry out in pain. Before he realizes it, he's up and out of the tub, water sloshing everywhere, jerking the bathroom door open with enough force that it bangs off the wall and hits him painfully in the shoulder as he rushes out. He finds Sherlock in the kitchen with a dishtowel, rapidly being soaked with blood, wrapped around his thumb. There's a knife and a cutting board on the worktop next to an apple.

"What have you done?" John cries.

Sherlock turns around, startled into wide-eyed surprise by John's sudden presence. John yanks Sherlock's fist towards him and pulls back the dishtowel. Sherlock has cut the tip of his thumb, through his fingernail and into the meat. John can see white bone shining in the cut for the half second before the wound wells with blood.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" he says, exasperated and worried in equal measure. "Sit down. I need to see if you've chipped the bone."

John opens the cabinet where he keeps his med kit, and starts taking out the things he'll need. "Can't leave you alone for _five_ _minutes_ without you getting into trouble. You're like a bloody toddler. No wonder you came back to me with _sixty-three stitches_ in your bloody back. I'll spend the rest of my _sodding life_ trying to keep you safe and I'll probably die from the stress before my fiftieth birthday, and you'll live to be _ninety_."

He lays everything out on the table, and grabs two clean dish towels, which he lays underneath Sherlock's hand. He pulls on his headlamp, then scrubs his hands at the sink with dish soap, cleaning under his fingernails, and dries them on paper towels. He pulls out the other chair and sets it in front of Sherlock's, pulls on the nitrile gloves, and switches on the headlamp, lowering the magnifying glass to peer at Sherlock's thumb.

"Spread your goddamn legs. I need to get closer," John orders. He pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves, and says, "Curl your other fingers under, like you're gonna make a fist, but leave your thumb out, lying on its side."

Sherlock obeys, and John cradles the injured thumb gently between his fingertips. Despite his annoyance, he cleans the wound gently, or as gently as he can, but Sherlock groans and starts shifting around in his chair. John snaps, " _Goddammit Sherlock,_ if you don't sit still, I'm going to take you to the A &E!"

"You can't send me to the A&E. I'm not allowed to leave the flat," Sherlock scoffs. John looks at him. Sherlock's face is pale and pinched, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. He can be inhumanly immune to pain sometimes, but at other times become a whimpering pansy.

"If you've chipped the bone, I'll have to take you for an X-ray and _so help me God_ , Sherlock, if you don't stop wiggling, I'm gonna call a cab and send you to the fucking A&E _by yourself!"_

John sighs deeply, and says, "Just ten more days, Sherlock; you can do it." When Sherlock doesn't say anything, John looks up. Sherlock is staring at him with an intensity that only Sherlock can, his eyes wicked and dark, a thin line of grey-green around his pupils.

"Sherlock, don't start," John says, his voice lower and rougher than he would've liked it to be. "You need to focus on getting through the press conference."

Sherlock scoffs. "That doesn't require my focus _right now_ , John."

"Yeah, well, turn your focus to something other than giving me that look."

"What look?" Sherlock asks, all innocence.

John rolls his eyes, and pulls on his headlamp, positioning the magnifying glass over his eye. John holds Sherlock's hand down with his right and, with his left, he squirts and wipes, squirts and wipes until he can see the white of the bone, whole.

"The bone looks fine. No chips," says John finally, and begins the process of stitching it up. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him the entire time. Afterwards, when he's trying to clean up the mess, Sherlock crowds behind him and cages him against the kitchen table, and John says, " _Jesus_ , Sherlock. You're insatiable!"

"Oh, you love it," Sherlock says, bending his head to sniff at the nape of John's neck. The scent here never ceases to comfort him. Without realizing it, he nuzzles more, his anxiety about both the meeting tonight and the press conference in general on hold.

"Unlike you, I can go more than ten hours without an orgasm," John breathes. He turns around and Sherlock pulls him into an embrace, the thin cotton of his pajamas doing nothing to mask the hard length of his cock against John's abdomen. "Jesus," John whispers as Sherlock aggressively pushes John's pajama bottoms down, and says, "You should be naked _all the time_ in our flat. This body— _fuck,_ " and opens his mouth over the left wing of John's collarbone and starts to bite down before pausing and sliding his teeth over to the other side.

"It's fine—you won't hurt me," John says, referring to his scar, where the skin is mostly numb, and Sherlock says through gritted teeth, as though John has driven him _angry_ with desire, "Exactly. I want you to _feel_ my teeth on your skin. I want to bite all the way through your skin, leave a scar of my own, a permanent mark."

"You're a maniac," John murmurs, voice infused with his deep appreciation for Sherlock's maniacal tendencies, and watches as Sherlock reaches into his dressing gown and pulls out a small pump bottle of slick. John shakes his head, smiling, and says, "Of course you would have lube in your pocket. Seriously, have you stashed bottles all over the flat?" and Sherlock growls and sucks John's lower lip in between his teeth and doesn't answer. He has the bottom of the bottle awkwardly held in his left hand, tipped against his chest to keep it situated, with his right index finger poised to press down on the pump dispenser, but he's trying to kiss and rub his crotch against John's and juggle the bottle at the same time. He pushes down on the dispenser, which is aimed so the slick will end up in his palm—the same one that holds the precariously situated bottle—and when he finally presses the top with his index finger, he misses and the cool liquid shoots out of the bottle and hits John's t-shirt.

They both stare down at the stain and John starts to laugh hard enough that his stomach muscles clench abruptly, his mouth opens wide in pleasure, while Sherlock glares at him and then at John's t-shirt and then at the bottle, as though all three are to blame for the failed attempt at lubricating his hands. John's shoulders are shaking, and his eyes are squeezed shut with laughter. He's still hard, and the laughter prompts his brain to release hormones that turn up the heat of his arousal while also tempering the need to get off, leaving him burning slow and hot. He hears a clatter in the sink, and opens his eyes to see what caused it, but Sherlock grabs him under the thighs and then _heaves_ him up on the counter. John startles violently, bangs the back of his head on the cabinet, and curses loudly. "What the hell—" he starts to say, but Sherlock grabs his hips and pulls him forward, ignoring John's protests at being manhandled.

Sherlock gives John his dirty sex smile, grabs the bottle of lube out of the sink, and depresses the pump once. He tosses the bottle back in the sink, rubs his hands together like a randy Scrooge, greedy for John's cock instead of money. John's eyelids grow heavy as he watches those long, knobby fingers wrap with perfect form around his blood-hot, blood-hard dick and give—one—long—tight—stroke. John grunts with pleasure, and lets his head fall forward. Sherlock bends his head to meet it, and with sloppy rubbing against each other's faces manage to connect their lips in a kiss, reminding John of an infant rooting blindly over its mother's breast in search of the nipple.

 "Hey, gimme—yeah—" John mutters, gathering some slick onto his own hand so he can work Sherlock's ignored erection. Sherlock is all but silent, until John draws his tongue in a thick line along his jaw and up to his ear. He bites the shell of Sherlock's ear, earning himself a sharp moan, the hand on his cock speeding up with perfect talent. The buzzer sounds downstairs, and Sherlock mutters, "Mrs. Hudson will get it," against John's lips. Sherlock has moved from working him with controlled strokes and is now focused almost exclusively on the head of John's cock. The prickling heat of impending orgasm begins to coalesce, and John teeters right on the edge when Sherlock jerks and shudders against him, his semen coating the back of his hand.

"Oh, god, yeah, that's it," John mutters, his stomach muscles pulled taught, shoulders hunching forward as though his entire body wants to close around the climax which hits him right before his—

There's the sound of someone clearing their throat very loudly, and Sherlock's head whips around, his hand still stroking John who can't stop his orgasm even if he tried. He bites back all the noise that wants to escape, forcing them into an almost silent grunt in his throat that he can't help.

Sherlock shouts, "Piss off, Mycroft!" and wraps his dressing gown around John, pulling their messy midsections together, and John glances furtively at Mycroft, hoping his eyes are averted. Mycroft is staring at the ceiling, his head tilted so far back the tendons are straining, and then says, "I'll be waiting in the sitting room. I trust the two of you will be hasty in making yourselves presentable. Greg is on his way."

Mycroft moves into the sitting room, out of their sight, and John feels the tension drain out of Sherlock before he bustles both of them to their bedroom, dragging John on his tiptoes. Inside, Sherlock locks the door and the two of them stare at each other. Sherlock's chins multiply as he starts laughing—John snorts and then they collapse on the bed in a fit of hysterical giggles. When they're able to speak again, John says, "I'll never be able to look Mycroft in the eyes again," and Sherlock spits in abrupt laughter, setting John off again. Finally, John says, "I can't stop laughing with you here—go to the bathroom and get cleaned up. I'll go after you." Sherlock leans over to give him a noisy smack of a kiss before he goes.

After they're cleaned up, John puts on corduroy trousers and a blue button up shirt, looking shabby next to Sherlock's tight, black, fine wool trousers and a crisply pressed blue shirt.

"Ready?" Sherlock asks, wrapping his fingers around the Victorian glass doorknob. John nods his head and they exit the room

~*~

**Friday, 26 April 2013**

Two weeks later, off the press room at New Scotland Yard, behind the backdrop, Sherlock stands stiffly, waiting for the Big Reveal. Representatives from NSY and the Home Office are on stage singing his praises. The publicist Mycroft hired for Sherlock rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Stop that," Sherlock hisses at him. "You're acting like an impatient child."

"Sherlock," John says in his _behave yourself_ voice, and Sherlock moans, "I just want this to be over with."

"I know, and it will do. We just have to get through the next hour."

"This plan of Mycroft's is unnecessarily dramatic. Of course, what else could I have expected from the world's stuffiest _drama queen_. I suppose he needs to satisfy his need for—"

"He can't be both _stuffy_ and a _drama queen_!" John says, grinning widely—he never lets go of a chance to tell Sherlock he's wrong. "They mean completely opposite things!"

Sherlock turns his head and glares at John, squinting his eyes, and says, "It's Mycroft," as if that explains everything.

"Step here, Mr. Holmes," the publicist, Cayden, says, pointing at a mark right behind the entryway to the stage. "When I tell you to, open the door and turn right to go directly up to the stage. Everyone will be standing, and Inspector Lestrade will guide you to the front. After that you'll be—”

"Yes, I don't need to be told more than once." Sherlock sighs deeply, and dutifully steps forward to his mark. He no longer feels like the man that London met through John's blog. That man was arrogant, and lacking in compassion. The opinion of the press was meaningless to him, but now he needs to get it _right_ , if not for himself then for John. John has believed in him since the night he met him at 221B, and he believed in him all through Moriarty's smear campaign, and he believed in him when Sherlock stood on the roof of St. Bart's and told him he was a fraud.

John is no longer just his blogger and best friend. Now, they are _(not boyfriend,_ Sherlock had said when the question came up, _not lover either,_ John had replied, _too—ugh_ ) and the relationship feels too fragile to expose to the public eye. He's pulled out of his bitter thoughts by John's hand slipping into his.

"Some of them will love you, and some of them will hate you. No matter what they feel, you _are_ a hero. None of the people out there on that platform is delusional about that fact."

"Sixty seconds, Mr. Holmes," Cayden says, raising his eyebrows pointedly at him and John.

"Yes, all right, _thank you_ —whatever your name is," Sherlock says, gritting his teeth, and then turns to John. He lowers his voice so only John can hear, and says, "I don't care what they think about me. But when they find out there's an _us_ , they'll criticize you, too, and that feels—I don't think I could bear it for them to turn what we have into puerile gossip. I can't bear them saying nasty things about _you_."

"You _can_ bear it, and you will," John says, his voice full of faith.

"Thirty seconds!" Cayden looks like his blood pressure is rising in direct proportion to the number of seconds left in the countdown. "They're about to introduce you."

John squeezes Sherlock's hand once, and then lets go.

Sherlock grabs his hand back, and says, "No. Together." It's not phrased as a question, but he knows John hears the uncertain lilt on the end.

"Fifteen seconds!" Cayden says. "Together or not, I don't care, but _hurry up_."

"Together. Just the two of us," John says with a private smile that promises him everything.

"Against the rest of the world," Sherlock says.

"Obviously," John says, making Sherlock laugh.

"Go!" Cayden says.

They both face forward at the same time, their hands still clasped. Cayden gives them a little push and with John by his side, Sherlock steps back into the land of the living.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why the chapter count has changed, it's because I binned a bunch of scenes from chapters 12-15. In "Return," the handjob Sherlock gives John was not in the original outline, but my Muse would not be placated, and insisted it should remain. 
> 
> It changed the entire timeline, though, and made several chapters unusable. Since I'm incredibly impatient, I ended up fumbling the change in pacing in my eagerness to have _something_ to post rather than taking my time to work it out. As a result, I've always felt those chapters were part of a completely different story, and longed to remove them, but was too cowardly.
> 
> This weekend I finally decided it was too important to me to give my very best and that meant merging 4 chapters into 2. Much to my dismay, deleting a chapter means deleting everything that goes with it, including reader comments. If your comment was deleted because of it, I just want to say how sorry I am to have done so. I tried to preserve all 4 chapters but it left two few scenes in each chapter, and no logical stopping points.
> 
> I've done my best to do right by my readers, but I know what it's like to wait months for an update. I hope y'all see something worth the wait in this chapter. I originally meant to end the story here, but. Well. I didn't, mostly because it left a lot of unfinished business.
> 
> Thank you so much for taking this journey with me. It's meant the world to me.
> 
> Teddy


	24. It's All Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end of our journey. I posted the first story/chapter at the end of May so we've come a long way with each other. As some of you know, my beloved dog Pippin went into late stage heart failure in October, and on the 16 of October, we made the decision to euthanize him. On a cool October afternoon I drove him to the vet and then drove back home an hour later with a void in my life.
> 
> On the 20th of October, I wrote "Interlude" with Pippin at my feet on his blue rug, and then I posted it. That was the day he died and I haven't written since then. These last two chapters were already written and only required a coat of polish, and thank God for that or I wouldn't have finished this. I would've committed the most heinous crime a fanfic author can committ--the Permanent WIP! 
> 
> I had mapped out three chapters between "Resurrection" and "It's All Fine" which I stuck in the "extras" folder when I realized it would be a few more months before I'd want to write anything. The good news is I have discussed an Extras chapter with Jenn, so you may see them if we go through with it!
> 
> I can't begin to sing the praises of the women who helped bring this story to fruition. They deserve their own chapter and as soon as I have 30 uninterrupted, QUIET minutes I'll get right on that. ;)
> 
> Thank you to *all of you* for coming with me on the journey, for crying with me and then getting hot under the collar with me. ;D (I do love to write me some filthy smut.)
> 
> Thank you for loving Gerald, too! In the chapters I cut, we got to see more of the gang than just the peek here at the end, and they were fun to dream up. Poor babies, their scenes kept getting cut so y'all don't know them like I do, but maybe one of these days you will. I'm not making any more promises, though!! I'm not even sure I'll keep writing fanfic. This was the story I wanted to tell all along and there's a peace that I feel in bringing it to a close that I'm loathe to disturb.
> 
> I thank each of you, especially those who commented. I read things and don't comment often mostly because I read everything on an app on my tablet rather than directly in the browser so I'd be a hypocrite to fish for comments when I'm guilty of not commenting myself. So, I'll just say that all us writers beg for comments so when you have the opportunity it impetus to comment, do it!
> 
> I'm off now to read all the stories I've got on my marked for later list. Goodbye!
> 
> Love,  
> Teddy

* * *

**Monday, 13 October 2016**

John goes skidding around the corner of the alley, wiping sweat from his forehead and almost collides with the skip in front of him. The bright staccato sounds of laughter and clink of dishes spill out of the café at the front of the building.

On the other side of the skip, a man (the suspect?) has Sherlock's back against the soot stained limestone wall, both palms flat on either side of Sherlock's head, caging him in. Sherlock looks scared, and while the thinking part of John's brain knows this is just an act, his heart is pumping adrenaline through his body and he isn't thinking right now, he's just _acting_.

"Oi! Get your fucking hands off him!"

(Sherlock will later point out that "his" hands were not _on_ Sherlock, merely _near_ Sherlock, and John will point out that, in the moment, he doesn't particularly give a fuck what preposition applies, the man was _within_ Sherlock's personal space, ergo Sherlock should thank his lucky starts John didn't beat the man to death.)

To the man's utter detriment, he gives John the once over and decides John isn't a threat, even as John is advancing on him.

(Sherlock will, again, later point out that he was in no danger whatsoever so John's overreaction to the situation is entirely unwarranted and John will, again, point out that, in the moment, he doesn't particularly give a fuck what Sherlock thinks is _unwarranted_ or not.)

"Fuck off!” the man says, with a sneer. ”I just paid him ten quid to suck me off. Wait your fuckin' turn."

Sherlock, bless him, sees the look in John's eyes and attempts, though not very strongly, to warn the man that he has, perhaps, just written his own death certificate.

"Um..." Sherlock says, and lifts one shoulder in an elegant, half-hearted shrug.

John's weapon is in his hands almost as soon as Sherlock manages to say _um..._ John grabs the barrel with his left hand and, with an impressive backhand that would leave Andre Agassi applauding, pistol whips the unsuspecting suspect. The man sways in place for a second, looking confused, so John rears back again and, this time, there's a _whoosh_ followed by the satisfying, muted _crack_ of a fractured cheekbone and the man crumples to the ground.

"Dammit, John! He was my prime suspect and I was in the process of trying to gather information for the case!"

John inspects the grip of his weapon for blood and other gore. He wipes the offending gore off on the suspect's coat, then checks the man's pulse as well as the state of his eyes, making sure he's not got a sliver of cheekbone shoved up into one of them.

"Did you hear what I said?" Sherlock shouts.

"Yeah, I did. Just not sure how sucking him off in an alley for a tenner helps you gather information," John says, deadpan, checking the safety is on one last time.

He's about to put his gun into the hidden holster under his jacket, when John finds himself shoved up against the limestone wall and, for a split second, thinks the suspect has recovered from his pistol-whipping, and brings his hands up, but it's only Sherlock. Sherlock is muttering a combination of curse words while attempting to get John's hands out of the way as well as stuff John's gun into his trousers except – wait, no, that's Sherlock's _hand_ and he's trying to grab onto John's rapidly filling prick.

"You infuriating man sticking your nose in...I didn't need rescuing...god, your _gorgeous_ eyes…looking like you wanted to kill him," Sherlock mutters while simultaneously trying to use his mouth to kiss John who says _Sherlock, stop_ , and is ignored. "...look at you with your...just _hot_ and...should be ashamed I could think this an aphrodisiac...got along just fine without you sticking your beautiful nose in... _Jesus Christ_ , do you have to do your belt up so tight?"

"Dammit, Sherlock, _stop_!" John says.

Sherlock, his hand stuffed down John's trousers, wrist trapped by the belt, glares at John in a combination of anger and lust.

"Why?" Sherlock asks impatiently.

"I'm only paying five quid for a hand job if that bloke was gonna get sucked off for a tenner."

Sherlock's jaw works back and forth. His nostrils flare. John tries to maintain a straight face. Sherlock rips his hand out of John's trousers and stalks off in the direction of the road. John unhurriedly fishes his phone out of his pocket, calls Lestrade to come pick up the suspect, and then collapses against the wall in helpless giggles while trying to get his erection under control before Lestrade arrives.

Sherlock, of course, can't stand to not be involved so he puts his strop on hold temporarily when Lestrade shows up and begins to explain, with much gesturing of hands and extrapolation of evidence, how he managed to nab the suspect.

"And why's he got a broken cheekbone?" Lestrade asks, jerking his chin in the direction of the suspect.

"He fell," John says.

"He fell," Greg says flatly.

"That's right," John says. "Although my fist might’ve been in the way."

They're both staring at the suspect across the way where he sits in the back of the ambulance, an orange blanket around his shoulders, handcuffs around his wrists and a glare on his face, though he wisely avoids eye contact. The paramedic who's supposed to be tending to his smashed-up cheek and split lip is chatting up the new Detective Constable under Lestrade.

"He was attempting to solicit sex from my boyfriend," John says.

"He was what?" Lestrade asks, looking back and forth between Sherlock and John.

"He wasn't _soliciting_ sex from me," Sherlock snaps, glaring daggers at John.

"Oh, so you offered, then, did you?" John asks with a pointed lift off his eyebrows.

Sherlock, looking indignant, opens his mouth to defend himself when John and Lestrade dissolve into laughter. Sherlock, now looking outraged, stalks off towards the street and disappears around the corner of the building.

"You're in for a tongue-lashing when you get home, eh, John?" Lestrade asks, grinning after Sherlock.

"Oh, I don't know, Greg. He seemed awfully keen before I told him I was only paying five quid for what he had in mind."

They dissolve in laughter once again because, no matter how much they might love Sherlock Holmes, they still love, occasionally, when the opportunity presents itself, to laugh at his expense.

~*~

Sherlock refuses to talk to John for the entire ride back to their flat.

"I said I was sorry," John says when Lestrade's squaddie drops them off at 221B.

"Hm," Sherlock grunts and pushes ahead into the foyer.

He stops and bends over so abruptly, that John collides with his (ridiculously lush and shapely) rear with an _oomph_.

"What's that, then?" John asks and edges around Sherlock so he can close the door.

Sherlock is holding a creamy white envelope in his hands, staring at the address before turning it around and proceeding to begin ripping into it.

"Oi! Give it here! That's got my name on it!" John says, trying to grab it out of Sherlock's hand, who doesn't even have to lift it over his head to keep it out of John's reach.

He looks down his nose at John. "It also has _my_ name on it," he says with a self-righteous twist of his lips, and then turns the envelope back over to the front and reads out, "'Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"It must be the—" John says, and Sherlock interrupts him. "The wedding invitation?"

They walk up the stairs to the flat, while Sherlock rips into the envelope. Inside are two 140-pound cardstock notes, one regarding hotel accommodations, directions, etc., and one the actual invitation.

“Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So together with Mr. and Mrs. Other So-and-So are inviting you to a weekend reception to celebrate the marriage of their sons, Gerald and Cyril Glass,” Sherlock reads out loud (with a few changes for brevity’s sake) and then pauses and asks, frowning,  "I thought they were going to have a public ceremony?"

"I told you they decided to have a private ceremony, just the two of them, and then host a weekend wedding reception."

Sherlock glares at the invitation, and then reads, "Fifteenth and sixteenth of April two-thousand and seventeen. Details provided within. Accommodations, directions, etcetera."

“They want all of us to come up on the thirteenth, just the eight of us."

Sherlock lifts his head and stares at nothing for a few seconds before saying, "Before you, I was just one person. Then I was a half of two." He looks at John with something like wonder on his face, and says, "Even my formidable intellect could never have imagined there would be seven people I would find tolerable." Then he pulls his coat off and his jacket, dropping them on the floor like the spoiled brat he is, knowing John will pick them up, and says, "I'll leave the gift buying to you," and drops the invitation on the table next to John's chair. John says, wryly, "We all very much appreciate your generosity in _tolerating_ us,” at the same time that Sherlock says, "I'm going to take a shower down here and you are going to take a shower upstairs and _then_ you are going to bugger me senseless."

"It's a good thing we all—wait, what?" John asks, his brain trying to process the abrupt turn the conversation has taken.

"I truly hate repeating myself," Sherlock says, the words far more playful than haughty after all these years. "I _said_ , we're each taking a shower and then you are buggering me senseless," Sherlock says, pushing down his trousers and pants. When John fails to move, he asks impatiently, "Did you miss the part where I said senseless. No? Good," before closing the bathroom door.

"Very good," John says with a grin.

~*~

Three hours, two helpings of Chinese food, and one fantastic shag later, Sherlock has dropped off into his post-case blackout sleep. He'll sleep for fourteen hours, so John busies himself writing up the notes for the case so he can begin the blog post. Suddenly, Sherlock comes lurching out of the bedroom, wrapped up in a white sheet, his hair sticking up in all directions, and looking for all the world like The Mummy from the old horror movies.

"Sherlock?" John asks, standing from the desk with sudden alarm.

"I’m glad we’ll be there to celebrate with them," Sherlock says, without preamble, blinking blearily, "because it took them twenty-five years to realize they were meant to be together even though all they had to do all that time was just _look_ , and I'm desperately happy, you see, that it only took us three years to realize what we felt, and we have Gerald and Cyril to thank for bringing you to me, in a way so, no, I don't just _tolerate_ them. They’re my friends, just as much as yours."

With that, Sherlock turns, sways a bit in place, and then disappears back into the bedroom. Intrigued, John follows and finds Sherlock already spread out on the bed like a starfish. John slips into bed next to him, having to shove a few of Sherlock's limbs over to do it. As soon as he gets comfortable, Sherlock turns over onto his stomach and convulsively throws an arm and leg over John's body. Despite his willowy figure, Sherlock outweighs John by at least two stone, and John is convinced Sherlock has the ability to concentrate his weight into various limbs at will via some sort of Newtonian wave physics, as though he's made of a substance neither solid nor liquid rather than flesh and bone. John tries to get comfortable underneath the twenty feet of Sherlock's limbs currently pinning him to the bed.

Sherlock says something that might sound like _I love you_ if John accounts for the fact that most of Sherlock's mouth is twisted to the side and pressed into the pillow.

“I love you, too,” John says quietly, reverently, and presses himself as close to Sherlock as possible.

~*~

**Friday, 13 April 2017**

**Berwick-on-tweed**

John and Sherlock drive up on the Wednesday before the weekend reception and spend two days wallowing in carnal indulgence interrupted by the occasional foray into the village for something to eat. On the Friday, Rebecca and Jasper arrive before noon, followed by Bernie and Olivia an hour later. Early evening sees the six of them, as requested, on the terrace of Cyril's parents’ house waiting for the two grooms. Everyone cheers when they walk out. Gerald's eyes land on John and his smile softens. The two of them are inextricably linked, and find in each other an inexplicable comfort that they don't get from their respective partners. It took many long months for Sherlock and Cyril to get over their jealousy, and accept this closeness between their partners. As John had explained it, _I need someone to talk to who isn't you._

Tonight is just for their friends, before the larger house party comes down for the weekend. Six friends who thought they had all the people they needed added two who never thought they would fit with anyone but each other. And now, here they are, sated from a delicious supper, passing glasses of champagne around while Cyril stands to give a toast.

“To Sherlock,” Cyril says, holding the glass of champagne up high. “For coming back from the dead. Because if he hadn’t, our partners would still be stuck with each other rather than where they belong.”

“On their knees?” Bernie suggests, to tipsy laughter, and a few bawdy cheers.

Olivia gives her the look of long-suffering spouses everywhere. Half irritation, half amusement. Sherlock’s face turns red, and John hides his grin behind his glass of champagne.

“Oh, haha, Bernie. I _meant_ that without Sherlock's resurrection, he and I would not have our wonderful, patient, sexy as fuck partners where they belong which is _by our side_. To Sherlock!"

"To Sherlock!" comes the raucous cheer.

Everyone looks at Sherlock, who blushes furiously and gives a solemn nod. John tries, and fails not to laugh at his embarrassment. Sherlock glares at him and John kisses him, quite provocatively, on the mouth and is encouraged with a piercing wolf-whistle by Bernie, until Cyril clinks a fork against his glass and reminds them that they are not the center of attention.

Later, Sherlock sees John and Gerald across the lawn, arms looped around the other's shoulders, heads bent together.

“I know what you're thinking,” Cyril says, startling Sherlock.

“You couldn't possibly," Sherlock says. "Your brain’s simply not complex enough.”

“You’re thinking how fucking lucky you are. Am I wrong?”

“Not completely,” Sherlock allows. “I'm also thinking that Gerald should have worn a pink tie to match your shoes, because—“

“They are _not_ pink!” Cyril protests, trying to punch Sherlock's shoulder while Sherlock laughs and tries to evade the punch.

“A little pink bow, maybe—“

“—are bright burgundy—“

“—look lovely in pink, he would—“

John and Gerald pull apart to turn around in curiosity at the ruckus. Their respective partners are taunting each other and trying to land a friendly punch, looking like the world's largest twelve year old boys. John and Gerald grin at each other, and head back to the house.

~*~


	25. Acknowledgements

There will never be enough words to express my gratitude towards the women who supported me through this whole process. I've thanked them over and over again, but I'm pretty sure there aren't enough thanks in the world to do them justice. I thought there would be a point past which they would just not put up with me another second, but that point would come and go and, miraculously, they didn't abandon me. They've enriched my life and helped me become a better fan by drawing me even deeper into the rabbit warren that is the Sherlock fandom, a place I never thought I would be. Ever. Like, the forever never ever type of "never." Before March of 2017, I didn't even realize there was a difference between a "fan" and a "fandom fan" because I didn't even know there was something called "fandom." (There are many, many terms I didn't know before I got sucked into this fandom, including a plethora of acronyms. Thank god for the fanlore wiki.)

I know you've heard me thank Jenn and Katie multiple times, so I'll start with those beta readers extraordinaire...

**Jenn** :

If we compare the process of writing this story to the process by Authors Who Actually Get Paid to Write, then Jenn would be my agent. At least, that's the way it works going by all the acknowledgements pages I've read. She not only beta read each chapter (a laborious process in and of itself), but was my brainstorming partner, and excellent at Teddy-wrangling, specifically smoothing down the ruffled feathers of my writerly ego, which has a tendency to get prickly at perceived insults. She also did research and wrote up "extras" for me (like spreadsheets", things that got cut in the final draft, poor Jenn). She was patient when I couldn't get it right, and never said no to any of the help I asked for. She's my "cerebral" wife. From the bottom of my heart, Jenn, thank you for your brilliance and love; thank you for taking time out of your insanely busy life to help me bring this story to its close. In an email from the early stages of this story, Jenn said:

> Can I admit this feels somewhat like being a midwife or a doula on the side birthing a baby? It has been awesome to watch it all come together and be a part of it.

Your job as midwife was greatly needed and deeply appreciated, Jenn, as was your continuing role of Superfriend.

**Katie** :

Katie's role in the Real Life Author comparison above would be Editor. Katie did not mince her words when I needed a strong hand and some tough love, and I cannot tell you how much worse this story would be if she had been hesitant to do so. When I was writing the very difficult scene of John breaking up with Gerald (Chapter "Fallout"), this is what Katie had to say about the weak-ass first draft:

> Don't hate me, but I gave you my honest feedback about the breakup. I wanted it to be messier and have more anger from Gerald. I love that Gerald wants to be friends again, but I think that should come later. The "I'm so angry with you I can't look at you" type of response is more what I wanted from Gerald. I feel so heartbroken for Gerald that I want to see more of his rage. We've got the shock factor. I love his reaction to the MAgic Bullet being returned. I would cry harder of Gerald is angrier and John a sad, wretched mess. I want them to be friends later and repair everything later, but right now I want PAIN! HAHAHAHA! I'm cruel. Anyway, that's what will get me to cry and cry hard. 

I admit I was irritated that anyone would dare to suggest I'd written anything other than a perfect story because I'm a writer and we have big egos. I may have found myself muttering under my breath things about "uppity betas," but when this chapter finally reached the demanded angst-level, and Katie was happy with it, I felt relieved that I'd listened, even if I was sullen during my initial rewrites. My measurement for the quality of my angst was whether or not Jenn and Katie cried, and bless them, but I made them cry far too much than is proper. Thank you Katie for not being afraid to tell me I did it wrong because that takes so much courage, and think how wimpy that scene would've been without you! Thank you for your honesty and taking time from your life to work with me on this behemoth.

**Tia** :

Tia wasn't directly involved in the making of  _It's All Fine_ , but she was indirectly responsible for making it possible. She is the sweetest, gentlest person I've ever met, and that's including my children. We email each other almost daily even when all we have to say is, "Nothing much happened today" and sometimes getting an email like that from Tia was the opening to reach out that I didn't even realize I needed until it was offered. I leaned on her a lot when I realized Pippin's heart failure was advanced enough that he would need to be euthanized, and I continue to lean on her for that and many other reasons.

I met Tia, just like Jenn and Katie, here on ao3 when they commented on one of my stories. Tia always had the  _best_ comments. She told me my writing was her everything and I told her I was going to make a screenshot of that and turn it into the wallpaper for my laptop so I could look at it whenever I got discouraged. Also, she always addresses me as "dearest" in emails, and I had hearts for eyes the first time she did it. Thank you, Tia, for being my sweetest and letting me be your dearest. She always signs her emails with lots of little "x" kisses, so Tia, here's some for you. xxxxxxxxxxx (We're like making out with that many kisses!)

**Meg**

Meg doesn't really have anything to do with this story, but she needs to be thanked anyway. We first started emailing each other in the early days of my series  _After All These Years_ , which was just smut sweetened with domestic comedy. The specific story she first commented on was "Beethoven's Violin Sonata no. 9" otherwise known as The One Where Sherlock Gives John a Blowjob in Greg's Office. Meg is my personal Watson. She's the one I email when I need to get all the rubbish going around and around out of my head. If our emails were acted out by Sherlock and John, they would show John sitting in his chair looking calm and centered, watching while Sherlock paced back and forth, trying to work things out and jumping from one idea to another, unrelated idea. Also, the rude, snapping thing John puts up with from Sherlock? Yeah. That. She's unflappable when it comes to my considerable talent for being flappable. Thank you for your love and forgiveness, and the walls of text I send you, and for  _missing_ the walls of text when I haven't sent them in a long time.

**Interesting Facts About This Behemoth of a Story**   

> 60  _separate_ emails were sent back and forth between me and Jenn and Katie. That comes out to 1,505 words per email.
> 
> It took eight months to write (only five if you exclude my three month hiatus when I was deep in grief at losing my Pippin)
> 
> 3 spreadsheets were created
> 
> 1 song written
> 
> Approximately seventy gajillion words written (that number may be technically inaccurate)
> 
> 1 hurricane was weathered by yours truly and her family
> 
> Over 300 Johnlock Fanart (porn) images downloaded and sorted as part of the "Your Daily Dose of Johnlock Fanart" email that I sent every night during the summer to Jenn, Katie, Tia, and Meg. I didn't actually send all 300 images to my email group, mind you, just the ones that went with that day's theme.

Last, but of course not least, thank you to every one of you who read and commented, who followed me from the original series format to this version. Every comment is treasured like nobody's business, but they're especially meaningful when they come from readers who follow along with an unfinished work. It takes balls, kiddos, and I thank you for your. Um. Balls?

*grins madly*

-Teddy


End file.
